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THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


«r 


IN  THE  LARGER  BATELAOS  THE  CREW  WORK  THEIR  OARS  FROM  ON  TOP  THE  TOLDO 


O'-' 


THE 

FLOWING  ROAD 

ADVENTURING  ON  THE  GREAT 
RIVERS  OF  SOUTH  AMERICA 


CASPAR  WHITNEY 

ADTHOB  OF 

"a  8POBTINO  PILOBIMAGE,"  “ON  SNOW8HOBB  TO  THE  BABBEN  OBOUND8,” 
"HAWAIIAN  AMEBICA,”  “jONGLE  TBAIL8  AND  JUNGLE  PEOPLE,”  ETC. 


WITH  MAPS  AND  PHOTOGRAPHS 
BY  THE  AUTHOR 


PHILADELPHIA  & LONDON 

.1.  B.  LIPPINCO  ri'  COMPANY 

1913 


I 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY  4.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 


PUBLISHED  SEPTEMBER,  1912 


PRINTED  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 
AT  THE  WASHINGTON  SQUARE  PRESS 
PHILADELPHIA,  U.  8.  A. 


To 

MY  WIFE 

But  for  Whose  Inspiring  Example  this  Delated 
Record  of  the  Call  of  the  Red  Gods 
Would  Never  Have  Been 
Submitted. 


FOREWORD. 


The  chapters  in  this  volume  are  from  the  expe- 
rience of  five  separate  overland  and  river  expeditions 
into  South  America,  beginning  in  1902.  Largely 
these  were  by  canoe,  and  chiefly  on  streams  more  or 
less  connecting — hence  the  significance  of  the  title — 
Flowing  Road. 

They  embraced  a continuous  journey  from  Santa 
Isabel,  on  the  Rio  Negro,  in  Brazil,  to  Ciudad  Boli- 
var, on  the  Orinoco,  in  Venezuela;  from  San  Fer- 
nando, on  the  Apure,  to  the  headwaters  and  return, 
of  the  Orinoco,  via  the  Atabapo  and  the  Casiquiare; 
down  the  Portuguesa,  in  Venezuela,  the  Apure  and 
the  Orinoco  to  its  mouth;  and  on  the  Parana,  the 
Salado  and  Feliciano  rivers  in  Argentine.  The  sad- 
dle trips  included  crossing  the  llanos,  which  stretch 
between  the  Venezuelan  north  coast  mountain  range 
and  the  Orinoco  on  the  south,  and  the  llanos  and 
the  forest  to  the  east  of  Lake  Maracaibo ; skirting  the 
Cordilleras  at  the  east  of  Colombia ; across  the  Andes 
into  Chile;  and  some  penetration  of  the  pampas  of 
Argentine  and  the  forests  of  Brazil.  Incidental  to 
getting  to  and  from  the  frontier  I sojourned  for 
brief  periods  at  a majority  of  the  leading  cities  on 
the  continent. 

In  the  far  southeastern  corner  of  Venezuela  roam 
a native  people  whom  common  report  of  the  country 
declares  to  be  savage  and  unknown.  To  have  a look 
at  these  was  the  object  of  two  of  my  most  prolonged 
journeys, — approaching  on  one  occasion  by  way  of 

3 


4 


FOREWORD 


the  Amazon,  Rio  Negro,  Atabapo  and  Orinoco,  and 
on  another  ascending  the  Orinoco  and  the  Casiquiare. 
For  the  rest,  I will  admit  frankly  to  have  been  im- 
pelled neither  by  a wish  to  hunt  the  beasts  of  the 
jungle  (although  such  always  served  as  my  excuse 
for  escaping  the  bounds  of  civilization),  nor  to  report 
upon  the  economic,  social  or  industrial  conditions  of 
the  land,  nor  even  to  add  to  the  sum  of  knowledge  of 
the  scientific  world; — but  solely  to  satisfy  the  horizon 
hunger  which  incites  me  every  now  and  again  to  go 
and  “ see  things,” — that  curiosity  which  Professor 
Shaler  has  called  the  “ primal  instinct.” 

And  I must  say  also  with  equal  frankness  that  no 
country  I have  travelled  is,  as  a whole,  so  frequently 
or  so  persistently  misrepresented  in  print  as  this 
same  potential  South  America. 

Much  of  this  is  due  to  newspaper  dispatches  in- 
spired by  self  interest  (like  unto  those  coming  so 
often  out  of  Cuba),  and  to  magazine  articles  reveal- 
ing a prejudice  born  of  ignorance;  some  of  it  to  the 
surface  observations  of  casual  tourists;  and  some  of 
it  to  the  travellers  who  seek  to  impress  their  valour 
upon  home  friends  by  colouring  letters  and  tales 
fantastically  with  fever,  robbers  and  reptiles.  The 
three  favourite  themes  of  these  vaunting  rather  than 
evilly  disposed  raconteurs  are, — the  audacious  mul- 
titude of  snakes;  the  malignant  prevalence  of  fever; 
and  the  beauty  universal  of  the  “ dark-eyed  seno- 
ritas.” 

But  this  is  not  to  infer  that  all  travel  in  South 
America  is  luxurious  or  even  agreeable.  It  depends 
on  where  you  journey.  To  all  the  important  centres 
you  may  go  comfortably.  You  can  ascend  the  Ama- 


FOREWORD 


5 


zon,  the  Parana,  the  Magdalena,  and  the  Lower 
Orinoco,  to  San  Fernando  on  the  Apure,  by  excellent 
steamers.  In  a sleeper  from  Buenos  Aires  on  the 
Atlantic  side  you  can  cross  the  Andes  through  a 
tunnel  to  Valparaiso,  on  the  Pacific.  In  comfortable 
railway  coaches  you  can  travel  far  in  Argentine,  see 
something  of  Venezuela,  Chile  and  Brazil,  and  in 
Peru  and  Ecuador  enjoy  two  train  trips  reckoned 
among  the  famous  of  the  world.  Through  all  the 
sparsely  settled  interior  you  may  go  laboriously  yet 
safely,  so  far  as  molestation  by  natives  is  concerned. 
But  the  great  middle  land  is  terra  incognita. 

There  are  sections  of  the  wilderness  where  you 
should  not  venture,  unless  adequately  supported ; and 
in  all  wilderness  South  America  the  going  is  arduous 
in  the  extreme,  frequently  dangerous,  and  work  only 
for  the  hardy  and  the  experienced  traveller. 

It  is  an  oft-heard  colloquism  that  South  America 
is  “ not  on  our  map  and  the  gibe  is  no  mere  jest, 
as  you  can  determine  by  turning  to  the  “ Atlas  of 
the  World,”  issue  of  1907,  where,  on  page  67,  you’ll 
find  stated  that  the  “ Orinoco  and  its  tributaries  are 
navigable  for  4,300  miles”!  By  the  light  of  its 
geographical  propinquity  and  its  mighty  trade  prom- 
ise, how  strange  appears  our  unacquaintance  with 
this  great  continent! 

This  volume,  as  I say,  is  no  trade  report,  but  I 
cannot  refrain  from  asking  contemplation  of  the  fact 
that  despite  bad  packing  (a  common  failing  of  Amer- 
ican shippers),  and  unintelligent  selling  effort  on  the 
part  of  our  merchants,  Brazil  bought,  in  round  num- 
bers, about  one  million  more  dollars’  worth  from  us 
than  J apan  during  the  same  period,  according  to  the 


6 


FOREWORD 


last  obtainable  annual  figures;  while  Argentine  pur- 
chases exceeded  those  of  China  by  eighteen  millions. 
In  a word,  we  sold  seventy-four  millions  to  South 
America,  while  we  were  selling  thirty  millions  to 
China  and  Japan, — where  exporters  maintain  ever 
an  alert  and  discerning  trade  eye.  We  are  forever 
shouting  about  an  open  door  in  the  Far  East, — yet 
here  at  hand  is  one  wide  open  which  either  we  ignore 
or  enter  irresolutely — and  blunder. 

Nor  can  I forego  this  opportunity  to  beg  of  my 
compatriots  a more  open  mind  when  they  visit  our 
neighbours.  We  are  prone  to  look  South  Americans 
over  from  our  viewpoint  only;  to  judge  them  by  our 
standards  of  work  and  play;  our  business  methods, 
our  accomplishments.  The  attitude  is  both  unintelli- 
gent and  unfair,  failing  as  it  does  to  take  into  account 
their  antecedents,  their  temperament,  their  handi- 
caps of  race  and  government,  and  the  compara- 
tively undeveloped  condition  of  their  great  hin- 
terland. They  lack  our  kind  of  progressive  spirit, 
it  is  true,  but  they  are  advancing  and  they  are  hos- 
pitable, kindly,  polite ; while  those  who  have  had  busi- 
ness relations  with  them  tell  me  they  are  desirable 
customers. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  very  nearly  as  unfair  to 
exalt  them  unduly,  as  a recent  author  has  done  in 
declaring  that  they  are  advancing  beyond  all  other 
peoples  save  the  so-called  Anglo-Saxons.  It  makes 
for  readier  comprehension  and  mutual  respect  if  act- 
ual conditions  are  not  glossed  to  thus  mislead  and 
so  prejudice  when  the  truth  is  that  many  genera- 
tions of  Brazilians  must  come  and  go  before  they  out- 
live their  heritage  of  racial  predilection  and  mixed 


FOREWORD 


7 


blood.  The  new  world  Portuguese  is  by  nature  a 
retail  shop  keeper.  He  lacks  the  imagination  of  a 
pioneer;  he  is  a bargainer  over  the  counter, — not  a 
builder.  And  a builder  is  what  Brazil  needs  in  her 
development. 

The  man  who  travels  South  America  with  open 
eye  and  mind  comes  away  bearing  patience  for  these 
descendants  of  a neglectful,  wasteful  motherland 
who  are  working  out  their  salvation  slowly  but  with 
surety. 

South  America  has  seen  too  many  of  Uncle  Sam’s 
sons  who  had  left  their  country  for  its  good,  and  of 
that  type  of  tourist  who  struts  and  yaps  and  beats 
the  tom-tom.  It  is  no  credit  to  our  manners  that  to 
us  should  be  almost  exclusively  applied  in  Latin- 
America  the  native  word  “ gringo,”  which  means  any 
foreigner,  but  customarily  is  employed  only  in  an  un- 
complimentary sense. 

To  the  path  breaker,  wilderness  South  America 
offers  a wonderplace  of  enigma  and  romance, 
whither,  during  the  century  following  the  first  land- 
ing of  Columbus,  hastened  the  boldest  adventurers, 
and  those  unexampled  pioneers,  the  Jesuit  Fathers, 
who,  after  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  of  beneficent 
labour  among  the  Indians,  were  expelled  by  Spain 
because  they  dared  to  oppose  slavery.  The  Fathers 
may  have  made  bigoted  Indians,  but  they  made 
happy  Indians — and  by  all  means  read  Graham’s 
Vanished  Arcadia,  if  you  would  know  the  full  story. 
While  North  America  was  yet  an  untrodden  wild, 
Spain  and  Portugal  were  creating  cities  in  Peru, 
Brazil,  V enezuela,  and  all  the  world  reverberated  with 
stories  of  uncovered  treasure. 


8 


FOREWORD 


It  is  one  of  the  extraordinary  phases  of  history 
that  so  much  of  this  vast  continent  should  have  fallen 
from  the  world’s  ken,  to  again  become  for  explorers 
the  baffling,  mystic  land  of  which  only  the  edges  have 
been  searched  during  modern  times. 

Of  the  Amazon  and  its  southern  tributaries  much 
and  extended  research  has  been  made;  of  the  feeders 
from  the  north,  however,  considerably  less,  little  in- 
deed, is  known. 

Two  men  have  supplied  practically  all  the  scien- 
tific world  knows  concerning  the  Amazon’s  largest 
northern  tributary,  the  Rio  Negro, — and  that  other 
great  river  which  adjoins  it  in  Venezuela — the  Ori- 
noco. To  this  day  the  famous  English  naturalist, 
Alfred  R.  Wallace,  and  the  equally  famous  German 
naturalist,  Alexander  von  Humboldt,  continue  in 
authority,  undisplaced  and  unchallenged,  although 
Wallace  made  his  ascent  of  the  Rio  Negro  and  its 
tributary,  the  Uaupes,  in  1849,  while  Humboldt  ex- 
plored the  Orinoco  in  1801-2. 

Three  or  four  years  ago,  Dr.  Hamilton  Rice,  of 
Boston,  made  a descent  of  the  Uaupes,  in  connection 
with  other  important  research  work  to  which  he  is 
giving  notable  devotion  and  intellection,  but  has  not 
yet  made  any  of  his  results  public.  More  recently 
a German,  Dr.  Theodore  Grunberg,  spent  a couple 
of  years  along  the  same  river,  called  also  Caiary- 
Upes,  studying  the  Indians, — from  which  material 
he  has  published  an  important  and  informing  book. 
The  mere  trip  up  or  down  either  the  Orinoco  or  the 
Rio  Negro  to  the  Casiquiare  is  nothing  remarkable 
and  has  been  done  two  or  three  times  by  adventure- 
some travellers,  though  I know  of  but  one  other. 


FOREWORD 


9 


Henry  A.  Wickham,  to  have  left  a permanent 
record  of  his  achievement. 

For  the  regions  they  visited,  however,  the  books 
of  Humboldt  and  Wallace  are  unrivalled — the  only 
ones,  in  fact — while  for  the  naturalist,  the  book  of 
Henry  Bates  continues  to  be  the  undisputed  classic 
of  the  Amazon,  as  does  that  of  W.  H.  Hudson  for 
the  La  Plata  section,  and  Eugene  Andre  has  made 
the  most  complete  contribution  on  the  lower  Orinoco. 

Finally,  I feel  constrained  to  apologize  for  the 
photographs  which  are  so  unsatisfactory  because  I 
could  only  leave  my  desk  during  the  winter  months — 
the  rainy  season  in  the  tropics — and  because,  too,  of 
the  alternate  steaming  and  soaking  to  which  the  films 
were  subjected — a very  small  percentage  coming  out 
at  all. 

C.  W. 

New  York,  July  20,  1912. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  The  Head  of  Navigation 15 

II.  Tracking  the  Rio  Negro 27 

III.  Voyaging  Overland 47 

IV.  Hauling  up  the  Rapids 64 

V.  Ancient  San  Gabriel  and  its  Forest  Desert.  73 

VI.  By  Uba  to  the  Frontier 83 

VII.  The  Divide  of  the  Flowing  Road 98 

VIII.  Through  the  Gateway  of  the  El  Dorado.  . . 112 

IX.  To  THE  Upper  Orinoco  via  the  Casiquiare  . .*  119 

X.  On  the  Threshold  of  the  Mystic  Land 134 

XI.  Beyond  the  Barrier 149 

XII.  Aaiong  the  Indios  Bravos 162 

XIII.  Under  the  Shadow  of  Duida 177 

XIV.  Crossing  the  Great  Cataracts 192 

XV.  Racing  the  Lower  Orinoco 199 

XVI.  Sitting  up  for  El  Tigre 219 

XVII.  Down  the  Portuguesa 247 

XVIII.  Trailing  after  Jaguar 266 

XIX.  Outfitting  for  Jungle  Travel 290 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The  Cargo-boat  of  the  Rio  Negro Frontispiece 

The  Route  of  the  Author  over  the  Flowing  Road 20 

A Trader’s  Camp  at  Santa  Isabel 22 

A Campo  and  Bit  of  Forest  Along  the  Amazon  River 22 

Working  up  River  by  the  Pushing  and  Pulling  Method 32 

My  Batelao  Tied  to  Characteristic  Boulder 32 

Hauling  and  Pushing  Around  the  Rocks 42 

The  Uba  Used  on  My  Inland  Trips  off  the  Rio  Negro 54 

Author’s  Sketch  Map  of  So-called  Falls  of  Rio  Negro 67 

Hauling  the  Batelao  over  the  Rock  at  the  Edge  of  Camanaos 

Rapids 70 

The  Mountain  Sentinels  on  the  Big  Bay 74 

My  Personal  Camp  Alongside  the  Rapids  at  San  Gabriel 74 

We  Receive  Congratulations 78 

The  Native  Dug-out  Canoes  of  the  Rio  Negro 88 

The  Uba  in  Which  I Journeyed 88 

The  Ancient  Port  of  San  Gabriel 88 

An  Instance  of  the  Great  Boulder  Bank 100 

Javita 106 

My  Camp  on  the  Neck  of  Land 106 

The  Isolated  Conical  Mounts  Rising  out  of  the  Flatland 116 

The  Indian  Fish  Trap  of  the  Upper  Negro 116 

The  Pestiferous  Casiquiare 124 

My  Crew  and  Canoe  up  the  Casiquiare 124 

Boulders  in  the  Upper  Orinoco 142 

A Woman  of  the  Guainia 142 

Making  Ready  to  Cache  our  Belongings  Before  Crossing  the 

Barrier 154 

Camping  in  Luxury  at  Esmeralda 154 

Indians  West  of  Lake  Maracaibo 170 

The  Great  Cataracts  of  the  Orinoco  from  an  Old  Spanish  Map.  . 182 

At  the  Edge  of  the  Encroaching  Jungle 190 

Beauty  Unadorned  on  the  Orinoco 190 

On  the  Lower  Orinoco 194 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The  Ox-cart  Packing  my  Outfit  Overland  at  the  Great  Cataracts  194 
In  the  Apure  Delta  Near  Where  the  Apure  and  Orinoco  Meet.  210 

Typical  House  and  Surroundings  on  the  Lower  Portuguesa 210 

Crossing  the  Llanos 222 

Getting  the  Packs  Together 230 

The  Water  Carrier 230 

A Water-hole 236 

During  the  Heat  of  the  Day  We  Loafed 236 

Alberto  and  Regulo  Bringing  in  a Deer 244 

The  Simple  House  of  the  Venezuelan  Llanero 244 

San  Fernando  de  Apure  in  the  Rainy  Season 260 

The  Gaucho  in  the  Field 272 

Pedro  Brings  in  His  Dug-out 280 

On  the  Salado  River 280 

The  Huge  Wheeled  Draught-carts  of  the  Argentine  Pampas.  . . . 286 

A Marble  Hunting  Knife 294 

The  Preston  Mess  Kit  Assembled 294 

The  Preston  Mess  Kit  and  Half-Size  Canteen  in  Detail 294 

A Venezuelan  Wayside  Resting  Place  of  the  Best  Class 296 

The  “Roorkee”  Takedown  Camp  Ghair 298 

The  Gold  Medal  Folding  Cot 298 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  HEAD  OF  NAVIGATION 

Santa  Isabel,  which  was  to  be  the  beginning  of 
my  canoe  journey  to  the  Orinoco  River,  is  about  five 
hundred  miles  beyond  Manaos  and  may  be  called  the 
jumping-ofF  place  on  the  Rio  Negro.  Speaking  more 
formally,  it  is  head  of  navigation  on  this  section  of  the 
flowing  road,  and  likely  to  remain  so  for  many  years. 
Some  folks  might  not  call  casual  steamers  navigation 
— thus  to  argue  themselves  untravelled  in  South 
America ; but  however  my  choice  of  word  may  be  dis- 
puted, the  fact  remains  that  sooner  or  later  the  per- 
severing, stern-wheel,  little  steamboat  to  which  you 
commit  yourself  at  Manaos  puts  you  down  at  Isabel, 
the  end  of  the  journey. 

If  you  are  lucky  enough  to  begin  your  travels  in 
June,  when  the  river  is  high,  your  arrival  will  be 
“ sooner,”  but  should  you  happen  to  set  out  upon 
your  adventures  in  February,  it  will  be  “ later.”  For 
it  is  one  of  the  surprising  phenomena  of  this  riverful 
country  that  in  the  early  stages  of  the  rainy  season 
even  three  feet  of  draught  ascends  the  Rio  Negro’s 
broad,  shallow  course  shiftingly,  intermittently  and 
only  by  help  of  the  gifted  native  “ practico  ” (pilot), 
whose  familiarity  with  the  whims  of  the  changing 
flood  seems  almost  a species  of  second  sight.  In  the 
height  of  the  dry  season  the  boat  makes  no  attempt 


15 


16 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


to  ascend  the  river,  but  remains  anchored  at  Manaos, 
which  town  with  its  fifty  thousand  people  is  the  most 
considerable  inland  port  of  Brazil.  And,  by  the  way, 
it  is  likewise  the  rubber  clearing-house  of  South 
America,  contrary  to  popular  misconception  regard- 
ing Para.  I should  add,  also,  that  Manaos  is  nine 
miles  above  where  the  black  water  of  the  Rio  Negro 
joins  the  yellowish  Amazon,  one  thousand  miles  from 
the  gaping  mouth  of  this  wonderful  waterway.  Here, 
from  New  York  or  Liverpool,  you  may  come  by  the 
steamer  which  goes  on  to  Iquitos,  its  final  port  in 
Peru,  more  than  thirteen  hundred  miles  farther  up 
the  Amazon. 

And,  speaking  of  the  Amazon,  let  us  pause  a 
moment  to  consider  this  mighty  river,  with  its  source 
on  the  other  side  of  South  America  in  the  very  foot- 
hills of  the  Andes,  three  thousand  miles  to  the  west. 
Yet  not  its  length  or  its  depth  makes  it  so  notable 
among  the  world’s  great  rivers  as  the  volume  of 
water  discharged  through  its  one-hundred-and- 
sixty  mile  opening  upon  the  Atlantic — a volume 
so  enormous  as  to  colour  the  ocean  nearly  one  hundred 
miles  off  shore  !*  Reaching  forth  over  an  area  of  two 
thousand  miles  east  and  west,  by  seventeen  hundred 
north  and  south,  its  tributaries  drain  the  upper  one- 
third  of  all  South  America — a basin  two-thirds  the 
size  of  Europe.  It  will  convey  to  you,  more  clearly 
than  maps,  an  idea  of  the  resources  of  this  mother  of 
rivers,  to  say  that  you  can,  with  comparatively  short 

* Curiously  there  are  no  official  figures.  Estimates  range 
from  fifty  to  one  hundred  and  eighty  miles.  Above  Marajo 
Island,  near  mouth,  thirty-five  miles  is  accepted  width  of 
Amazon. 


THE  FOREST  BLANKET  OF  THE  AMAZON  17 

portages,  make  your  way  from  the  Caribbean  Puerto 
Cabello,  at  the  top  of  the  continent,  to  Buenos  Aires, 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Rio  de  la  Plata  in  the  far  south — 
a flowing  road  indeed  1 

Yet  with  all  this  supply,  the  current  of  the 
Amazon  for  half  of  the  year  is  little  more  or  less 
than  four  miles  an  hour,  except  at  Obidos,  flve 
hundred  miles  up — the  one  point  along  the  flrst  one 
thousand  miles  where  both  banks  of  the  Amazon  can 
be  seen  at  the  same  time.  Here  only  a mile  intervenes, 
through  which  narrowed  passage  the  river  crowds 
itself  at  a depth  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  fathoms.* 
Elsewhere,  though  variously  reckoned  at  from  six  to 
fifteen  miles,  its  width  is  difficult  to  estimate,  but 
always,  on  either  side,  is  the  flanking  of  a dead-level 
country,  accentuated  by  the  clean-trunked,  high- 
standing,  and  heavily  buttressed  ceibas,  which  lift 
their  great  bushy  tops  on  high  as  though  to  escape 
the  smother  of  forest  blanket. 

A cross  section  of  this  Amazonian  blanket  would 
show  clean,  high  trunks,  light  gray  predominating, 
surmounted  by  close-growing  rounded  tops,  and 
palms  that  range  from  three  inches  to  nearly  as  many 
feet  in  girth  and  are  sometimes  fruit  laden.  An  ex- 
ception to  the  clean  trunk  rule  is  a very  graceful 
example,  much  the  form  of  our  own  honoured  elm. 
Draping  the  bushes  on  the  bank  is  often  a vine 
carrying  yellow  and  white  morning-glory-like  blos- 
soms, and  once  in  a way  you  see  a wistaria  reaching 
from  top  to  bottom  of  a sizable  tree,  while  again  a 


* Opinions  differ,  the  extreme  claim  being  270  fathoms. 
Passage  is  locally  called  Strait  of  Pauxis. 


18 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


favouring  wind  may  bring  you  delicious  fragrance. 

Preconceived  notions  of  gorgeously  hued  winged 
life  are  destined,  however,  to  disappointment  on  such  a 
trip  up  the  Amazon;  not  for  lack  of  life  but  for  lack 
of  opportunity  to  see  it.  No  dependable  knowledge 
of  a section  and  its  life  can  be  gained  from  the  deck 
of  a passing  steamer ; though  none-the-less  the 
steamer  tourist  has  written  many  an  article  on  South 
America — the  most  misrepresented  and  least  known 
of  our  neighbours.  It  must  be  confessed  even  after 
closer  scrutiny  that  the  general  outlook  along  this 
great  river  is  unvarying  and  monotonous.  For  the 
first  three  hundred  or  four  hundred  miles  the  banks 
to  the  very  water’s  edge,  are  low,  covered  by  rank, 
dense  bush  and  tree  growth.  Farther  along  they  be- 
come higher  and  more  definite,  so  that  once  in  a day’s 
travel,  perhaps,  you  may  round  a point  standing,  say 
fifteen  feet.  For  the  most  part,  however,  the  so-called 
high  banks  may  be  eight  or  ten  feet,  and  the  average 
level  nearer  three  feet.  This  is  the  conclusion  of 
observations  made  in  February  at  low  water.  In 
June,  when  the  river  is  high,  all  the  lower  country  and 
much  of  the  upper  becomes  flood  land,  called  “ gapo,” 
and  only  the  highest  banks  are  visible. 

After  five  hundred  to  six  hundred  miles  of  up- 
river travel  you  come  now  and  again  to  an  opening  or 
clearing,  locally  known  as  a “ campo,”  which  indicates 
an  attempt  at  cattle  raising,  or  may  carry  a planting 
of  cacao — abandoned  quite  as  often  as  not  for  the 
alluring  rubber  industry,  which  exacts  much  in  dep- 
rivation and  hard  work  but  pays  better.  Such  spots, 
however,  are  but  occasional,  and  for  the  rest  the 
heavy,  gloomy  forest  reaches  down  to  the  water,  im- 
penetrable to  the  eye  beyond  thirty  or  forty  feet. 


A HIGHLY  SKILFUL  PILOT 


19 


You  would  hardly  believe  there  could  be  scarcity 
of  water  along  such  a river  system,  but  I was  delayed 
at  Manaos  ten  days  while  the  anchored  Inca  awaited 
a rise  in  the  Rio  Negro;  and  to  reach  Santa  Isabel 
required  seven  days  of  running  from  daylight  until 
dark  under  the  utmost  skill  of  the  practice.  N or  was 
there  a day  of  the  seven  when  we  were  free  of  strong 
wind  and  driving  rain  and  lowering  clouds,  to  churn 
the  shoal  water  and  darken  the  sky,  thus  adding  to  the 
difficulty  of  keeping  the  channel.  Yet,  the  practice 
never  faltered,  nor  did  we  once  touch  bottom.  Just 
in  front  of  the  unhoused  wheel  on  the  forward  deck, 
signalling  the  steersman,  sometimes  himself  seizing 
the  spokes,  but  never  speaking  except  now  and  again 
to  the  diligent  lead-man  (whose  deepest  record  was 
twelve  feet),  so  stood  the  pilot.  Through  the  storms 
and  into  the  dark  of  the  early  night  he  found  the  tor- 
tuous channel  without  mistake;  twisting  and  turning, 
at  times  making  hardly  a half  mile  dead  ahead.  On 
every  side,  reaching  to  the  horizon,  the  deep  forest, 
unrelieved  by  the  individual  lofty  trees  of  the  Amazon, 
rimmed  the  w'ater  like  a great  hedge  trimmed  to  even- 
ness by  some  giant  hand.  Occasionally  a strip  of 
bright  sandy  beach,  framed  in  vivid  green,  supplied 
needed  contrast  and  emphasized  the  darkness  of  the 
enveloping  woodland. 

Of  the  Amazon’s  great  feeders,  each  over  a 
thousand  miles  in  length,  the  Rio  Negro,  if  not  first 
in  size,  is  certainly  second,  having  two  large  con- 
tributing rivers  of  its  owm,  the  Branco  on  the  north — 
extending  six  hundred  miles  up  to  the  mountain 
barrier  guarding  southeast  Venezuela — and  the 
Uaupes  on  the  west,  that  comes  from  the  far  Amazon- 
ian forests  lining  the  base  of  the  Cordilleras. 


20 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


Just  above  Manaos  the  Rio  Negro  is  from  six  to 
ten  miles  wide;  beyond,  for  several  hundred  miles,  it 
becomes  an  island-filled,  heliotrope  sea,  with  banks 
ranging  from  ten  to  twenty-five  miles  apart;  all  the 
islands  heavily  wooded,  and  one  as  much  as  thirty 
miles  in  length.  Approaching  Santa  Isabel,  itself  an 
island,  the  N egro  narrows  to  about  five  miles,  and  the 
first  indication  of  up-river  rock  outcroppings  is  seen 
in  the  prevalence  of  granite  beaches. 

Whenever  the  Inca  came  to  a high  bank,  always 
once  and  sometimes  twice  a day,  we  found  a settle- 
ment of  one-story,  crudely  built  houses,  usually  to 
the  number  of  two  or  three.  In  fact  none  had  more 
than  half  a dozen,  except  Barcellos,  which  boasts 
forty  of  better  structure,  and  is  at  once  the  oldest 
town  on  the  river  and  the  metropolis  of  the  Negro 
above  Manaos.  Although  they  can  raise  anything, 
the  truth  is  these  people  along  the  river  above  Manaos 
practically  grow  nothing,  and  are  dependent  almost 
entirely  on  the  infrequent  comings  and  goings  of  the 
one  small  steamboat.  From  the  interior  they  get  a 
little  “ caucho,”  as  the  second-grade  rubber  is  called, 
just  enough  to  tempt  existence  in  these  spots  hewn 
out  of  the  surrounding  forest. 

At  such  halts  therefore  the  provisions  were  dis- 
charged for  which  the  crew  had  been  ransacking  the 
cargo  since  perhaps  the  previous  stop — the  cargo  hav- 
ing been  dumped  in  at  Manaos  apparently  without 
regard  to  destination. 

Certainly  the  Inca  looked  the  part  of  a first  aid  to 
the  needy.  Its  two  open  decks  overflowed.  The 
entire  lower  one  was  filled  with  cattle,  pigs,  baled  mer- 
chandise, and  the  engine — mostly  the  engine:  the 


THE  ROUTE  OF  THE  AUTHOR  OVER  THE  FLOWING  ROAD,  FROM  THE  PORTUCUESA  TO  THE  AMAZON.  THE 
SHADED  SECTION  INDICATES  WHERE  THE  LANDS  OF  FABLED  EL  DORADO  LAY 


THE  RIVER  BOAT  OF  MANY  CARGOES 


21 


upper  was  reserved  for  the  passengers.  Forward  the 
practico  and  his  helpers  held  their  domain;  in  the 
centre  the  culinary  department  and  a few  cabins  had 
been  set  up;  while  at  the  rear  were  two  long  tables 
on  which  the  meals  were  served.  In  every  otherwise 
unoccupied  spot  on  the  upper  deck,  were  the  highly 
coloured  tin  trunks  so  dear  to  the  Brazilian  heart,  and 
the  tin  canisters  (from  three  gallons  to  twice  the 
capacity  of  a milk  can)  in  which  are  carried  sugar, 
coffee,  and  everything  likely  to  be  affected  by  the 
humid  atmosphere.  At  night  the  second  class  passen- 
gers swung  their  sleeping  hammocks  over  the  cattle; 
the  first  class  swung  theirs  along  the  sides  of  the  upper 
deck  and  over  the  tables.  Looking  astern  from  the 
centre  you  encountered  a vista  of  protruding  bare 
feet,  with  much  soiled  soles.  The  out  of  toAvn  Brazil- 
ian wears  shoes  on  occasions  only;  shoes  indeed  con- 
stitute a sign  of  distinction  for  the  man  as  do  stockings 
for  the  woman.  What  a tiara  is  in  Xew  York,  stock- 
ings are  to  up-country  Brazil;  and  when  in  rural 
South  America  the  female  of  the  species  attains  to 
drawers — she  is  entitled  to  be  classed  close  to  the 
aristocracy. 

There  were  about  a dozen  of  us  on  the  upper 
deck,  except  myself  all  Brazilian  traders  in  rubber, 
who  kept  to  their  hanunocks  most  of  the  time  when 
the  rain  did  not  drive  them  huddling  among  the  tin 
cans,  and  who  maintained  long  distance  discussions 
in  voices  loud  and  unceasing.  Some  of  them  gave  a 
realistic  touch  to  the  domestic  scene  by  slam  banging 
around  the  deck  in  shoes  from  which  the  counter  and 
all  the  upper  save  only  the  toe  had  been  cut!  They 
were  punctilious  to  the  last  degree  in  the  form  of 


22 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


addressing  one  another,  but  at  table  ’twas  the  devil 
take  the  hindmost ; and  a pretty  alert  devil  he’d  need 
to  be  at  that ! My  favourite  and  peaceful  retreat  for 
reading  was  under  the  feed  box  of  a couple  of  cows 
near  the  paddle  wheel. 

Thus  we  came  to  the  head  of  navigation  with 
the  wind  blowing  a gale,  the  rain  drilling  us  through 
and  through,  and  everybody  on  board  yapping  except 
the  practice,  who  was  attending  strictly  to  the  no 
easy  business  of  avoiding  a huge  uprooted  tree,  which 
swirled  threateningly  in  the  current  around  us. 

When  the  storm  had  passed,  Santa  Isabel,  a rock 
and  sand  island,  unfolded  itself.  Eight  houses,  a 
score  of  long-legged  pigs,  and  children  to  the  com- 
bined number  of  men,  women,  houses,  and  pigs,  com- 
prised the  colony  at  this  first  view.  But  as  I 
lingered  at  its  boulder-strewn  gates  the  population 
increased  with  the  opening  of  the  wet  season  by 
twenty  or  more  rubber-laden  canoes  and  batelaos — 
for  Santa  Isabel  is  the  rubber  headquarters  of  the 
“alto”  (upper)  Rio  Negro.  Here  the  Indian 
“ caucheros  ” in  their  dugouts  and  the  Brazilian  traders 
in  their  cargo  boats  bring  the  small  amount  of  rubber 
gathered  along  this  river  and  its  many  branches ; and 
here,  by  the  Inca  from  Manaos,  come  supplies  and  the 
agents  who  bargain  for  the  season’s  catch. 

Those  prone  to  class  all  South  Americans  as 
indolent  should  peruse  the  workaday  life-story  of  the 
average  cauchero  who,  with  food  necessarily  scant 
and  unnourishing  because  of  the  conditions  of  travel 
and  climate,  penetrates  far  into  the  most  un- 
healthy sections  where  rubber  is  to  be  found 
at  its  best,  and  for  months  at  a time  searches 


A trader’s  camp  at  SANTA  ISABEL  ON  THE  RIO  NEGRO  AMONG  THE  ROCKS 


A CAMPO  AND  CHARACTERISTIC  BIT  OF  FOREST  ALONG  THE  AMAZON  RIVER 


NATIVE  IMPROVIDENCE 


23 


the  tropical  hotbed,  returning  with  the  raw 
fruits  of  his  labour  but  once  a year,  for  a brief  respite, 
at  the  source  of  supplies.  Should  the  expedition 
fail  to  locate  rubber  in  profitable  quantity  he  finds 
himself  heavily  burdened  with  debt,  perhaps  ruined 
beyond  repair.  Of  all  pioneering,  I know  of  none 
where  life  is  so  drear,  or  the  work  more  exhausting 
or  beset  by  such  discomfort. 

I never  cease  to  marvel  at  the  costly  improvidence 
of  these  frontier  people.  In  the  far  North  where 
dogs  and  sledges  constitute  the  only  means  of  winter 
transportation,  I found  it  most  difficult  to  secure  an 
additional  train;  while  on  the  Rio  Negro,  where  the 
flowing  road  is  the  only  road,  canoes,  and  especially 
men,  for  hire  are  as  exceptional  as  sunshine  in  the 
rainy  season.  I had  brought  with  me  on  the  Inca 
provisions  to  last  the  four  or  five  hundred  miles*  canoe 
trip  to  San  Carlos,  frontier  post  of  Venezuela,  where, 
I was  assured,  I could  replenish  them,  but  at  Santa 
Isabel  I expected  to  engage  canoes  and  men  for  the 
journey.  That  none  were  to  be  had  despite  Manaos 
assurance  to  the  contrary,  was  a rude  shock  at  the 
very  outset,  even  though  not  entirely  unforeseen. 
And  if  I may  be  permitted  the  aphorism,  I should 
like  to  add,  that  in  wilderness  journeying  one  will  ex- 
tract more  comfort  from  invariably  expecting  the  un- 
foreseen. Experience  has  taught  me  alas!  how  little 
dependence  may  usually  be  placed  on  the  informa- 
tion of  the  interior  offered  at  frontier  towns,  and  I 

* This  is  an  estimate  based  on  our  rate  of  progress 
which  is  true  of  all  the  other  distances  given  in  this  book. 
Actual  figures  are  unobtainable.  Thirty-six  days  were  con- 
sumed in  actual  travel  from  Santa  Isabel  to  San  Carlos. 


24 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


was  not  greatly  surprised  later  to  find  no  provisions 
at  San  Carlos  or  my  gun  and  fish-line  necessary  to 
eating  en  route. 

Since  Santa  Isabel  is  the  point  of  communication 
between  the  outside  world  and  all  that  vast  interior 
reaching  far  to  the  west  and  north — even  to  one  gate- 
way of  fabled  El  Dorado — ^it  required  several  fruit- 
less days  of  urgent  searching  to  convince  me  the 
scarcity  of  means  of  travel  was  actual  rather  than 
professed.  I was  indeed  on  the  point  of  despair  when 
I had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  and  interest  in  my 
behalf  Netto,  a young  Brazilian,  whose  English  was 
about  on  a par  with  my  Portuguese.  Even  with  his 
kindly  help  it  was  impossible  to  secure  a canoe, 
though  I finally  did  engage  passage  on  a trading 
freight-batelao  to  San  Gabriel,  at  the  great  rapids, 
sometimes  called  the  Falls  of  the  Rio  Negro. 

Pending  its  start,  we  went  two  days  up-river 
heralded  at  every  turning  by  the  vigorous  blowing  of 
a not  unmusical  concho,  to  a beautifully  situated  point 
from  which  the  view  of  the  Negro  and  its  banks  was 
extended  and  most  attractive. 

On  this  commanding  site  lived  Netto  with  his  wife 
— an  alluring  young  native  whose  beauty  was  rather 
enhanced  by  informal  skirt  and  stockingless  feet, — 
and  her  mother,  in  a long,  low  adobe,  which  the 
dogs  and  goats  and  the  ducks  shared  on  easy  terms 
with  the  family.  Here  were  a man  and  his  wife 
who  had  been  to  Paris — the  Mecca  of  all  South 
Americans — who  were,  as  country  Brazilians  go, 
educated,  and  yet,  who  wear  no  stockings,  live  like 
peasants,  and  whose  sense  of  propriety  was  not 
offended  by  Netto  placing  before  me,  on  the  evening 


FOOD  OF  THE  COUNTRY 


25 


of  my  arrival,  and  while  we  sat  in  a circle — his  wife, 
mother  and  a number  of  other  women  and  I — a cer- 
tain toilet  article  common  enough  to  the  civilized  world, 
but  rare  beyond  the  frontier.  Netto,  by  the  manner 
in  which  he  bore  and  placed  it  within  our  midst,  no 
doubt  was  extremely  proud  of  its  possession,  and 
brought  it  forth  to  impress  me  with  his  and  his  fam- 
ily’s superiority  over  the  common  herd. 

These  people  were  representative  of  the  better 
country  class,  simple  in  their  habits  of  living  per- 
haps, but  kind  to  their  dependents  and  courteous 
beyond  need  to  the  voyaging  stranger.  My  few  days 
at  their  house  were  happily  and  instructively  occupied. 
In  addition  to  making  personal  acquaintance  with 
several,  I gained  knowledge  of  the  birds  and  fish  and 
products  of  the  country  that  afterwards  proved  of 
much  service  to  me.  To  my  taste  nothing  on  either 
Amazon  or  Rio  Negro  equals  the  flesh  of  the  “ tor- 
tuga  ” (turtle) , and  the  “ peixeboe,”  or  cowfish,  as  the 
manati  is  known  in  Portuguese.  The  turtle  in  vary- 
ing sizes  and  a few  edible  species  is  common  on  most 
of  the  large  waterways  north  of  the  Amazon;  it  is 
really  toothsome,  more  so  than  the  manati,  the  meat 
of  which  is  not  unlike  pork  in  flavour.  Both  are  cut 
up,  fried  in  their  own  fat,  and  marketed  in  cans,  a 
manati  yielding  sometimes  as  much  as  fifty  gallons 
of  oil,  whereas  often  the  oil  of  two  turtles  is  neces- 
sary for  the  preservation  of  one. 

Of  fish  there  are  many  kinds,  every  waterway 
appearing  to  have  its  individual  varieties,  but  one 
called  “ pirarucu,”  or  “ lou  lou,”  according  to  locality 
is  common  to  all  the  Rio  Negro,  and  a staple  food 
among  the  Indians,  notwithstanding  the  Brazilians 


26 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


look  upon  scaleless  fishes,  such  as  it  is,  with  aversion, 
claiming  their  flesh  conduces  to  the  fever.  The  most 
toothsome  fish  I caught  averaged  about  a foot  in 
length,  and  bore  lake  trout  markings.  The  curassow 
family  is  rather  a large  one  through  this  section  and  all 
of  its  members  are  good  eating.  Strange  enough,  no 
fruit  is  to  be  seen  from  Manaos  to  Santa  Isabel,  but  at 
Boa  Vista,  as  Netto’s  locality  is  called,  were  oranges, 
lemons,  “ avocados  ” (alligator  pear),  bananas,  man- 
goes. In  fact,  they  could  have  any  kind  they  cared  to 
plant — not  to  mention  the  breadfruit,  which  grows 
wild  but  must  be  cooked  before  eating.  There  were 
also  several  fruit-bearing  palms  besides  the  tucuman, 
and  the  assahy,  from  the  eherry-like  berries  of  which 
an  excellent  wine  is  made,  by  the  way.  All  palm 
fruits  yield  an  oil  which  is  used  in  eooking  fish,  the 
Brazilian  being  very  fond  of  grease. 

Here  also  is  the  country  “ where  the  nuts  come 
from,”  meaning  particularly  the  Brazil  nut,  which, 
perhaps,  it  may  interest  you  to  learn,  does  not  grow 
solitary  in  its  husk  like  our  own  less  prolific  nuts,  but 
with  true  tropic  temperament,  in  this  case  also  artistic, 
in  groups  of  a dozen  or  more  housed  so  compacted 
within  a cocoanut  shell-like  globe  that  once  you  have 
taken  them  out  you  are  unable  to  get  more  than  two- 
thirds  of  them  back  again.  These  hang  near  the 
ends  of  long  open  limbs  on  a large-girthed,  wide- 
spreading  tree  which  towers  a hundred  feet,  and  is 
altogether  one  of  the  most  attractive  in  Brazil. 

Small  excuse  indeed  for  the  denizens  of  this  land 
to  go  hungiy,  and  yet,  strange  to  say,  many  of  them 
lead  a miserable  half-fed  existence. 


CHAPTER  II 
TRACKING  THE  RIO  NEGRO 


It  is  upwards  of  three  hundred  miles  from  the 
head  of  navigation  to  San  Gabriel,  and  not  many 
of  the  miles  are  free  of  rapid  water ; rapid  water  which 
develops  into  cataracts  on  the  slightest  provocation 
of  turning  river  or  obtruding  rock,  and  a current  that 
ranges  five  and  six  miles  to  a pace  impossible  to  stem 
by  paddles  alone. 

If  you  would  read  this  tale  with  interest  and 
understanding  keep  in  your  mind’s  eye  a picture  of 
this  Rio  Negro.  From  Manaos  to  Santa  Isabel  it  is, 
as  I have  said,  substantially  a great  inland  sea,  ten 
to  twenty-five  miles  in  width,  filled  with  islands  that 
seem  floating,  so  low  do  they  set  in  the  water. 

At  Santa  Isabel  you  come  to  the  first  rock  ob- 
struction, after  which  the  character  of  the  river 
changes  to  become  a succession  of  long  island-filled 
bays,  while  the  width  from  bank  to  bank  is  reduced 
to  an  average  of  four  or  five  miles,  sometimes  more, 
occasionally  less.  Now  and  again  great  boulder 
islands  cut  the  river  into  several  very  rapid  sections 
which  try  the  soul  and  muscles  of  the  voyager.  The 
forest  lining  the  banks  differs  little  from  that  below 
Santa  Isabel.  It  is  the  same  dense,  evenly  trimmed, 
hedge-like  covering,  with  none  of  the  campos  or  the 
single  great  trees  looming  as  on  the  Amazon,  but 
now  the  points  extending  into  the  Negro  are  as 
often  as  not  rock  instead  of  brush  covered — usually 
boulder-like — sometimes  a single  large  flat  rock. 


27 


28 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


Two  or  three  times  you  come  to  a palm- thatched 
house  or  two  of  a trader,  to  whom  the  Indians  of  the 
many  tributary  streams  entering  the  Xegro  from  both 
north  and  south  bring  caucho. 

Throughout  the  length  of  the  flowing  road  canoes 
are  of  few  types  but  of  many  names.  The  batelao, 
varying  from  twenty-five  to  forty  feet  in  length,  with 
crews  of  from  four  to  a dozen,  is  the  long- journey 
cargo  boat,  corresponding  in  some  of  its  phases  to 
the  “ lancha  ” of  Venezuela.  In  both  countries  it 
has  a comparatively  deep  cockpit,  covered,  sometimes 
for  half  its  length,  sometimes  wholly,  with  a barrel- 
shaped, thatch  house — “ toldo  ” — and  is  built  of 
planks  around  a crude  but  strong  framework,  to 
withstand  that  hardest  of  usage,  navigation  among 
the  rocks  of  the  rapids.  High  up  on  the  Guainia,  a 
species  of  crude  bark  craft  obtains,  but  elsewhere 
the  canoe  of  the  Indian  is  always  a dugout,  known 
as  “ uba  ” in  Brazil,  and  “ canoa,”  or  “ curiara  ” or 
“ bongo  ” in  Venezuela,  varying  in  width  amidships 
from  eighteen  inches  to  four  feet,  and  from  a dozen  or 
fifteen  feet  to  as  much  as  thirty  or  forty  feet  in  length. 
One  I measured  at  Santa  Isabel  was  fifty-two  feet 
long,  fashioned  out  of  a single  tree.  Incidentally  I 
found  it  somewhat  curious  that  a Brazilian  Indian 
wlien  alone  in  a small  uba  often  paddles  from  the 
bow  rather  than  from  the  stern,  as  is  the  customary 
method  among  most  native  watermen  elsewhere.  Far 
inland  the  uba,  fitted  with  toldo,  is  also  the  long- 
journey  boat,  but  on  the  lower  reaches  of  the  Rio 
Negro  and  the  Amazon  and  the  Orinoco,  one,  two, 
or  three  board  ribs  are  added  to  its  gunwale,  and 
the  craft  becomes  respectively  “ montaria  ” among 
the  Portuguese,  and  “ falca  ” among  the  Spanish 


THE  SLOW  MOVING  BATELAO 


29 


speaking  peoples.  The  common  boat  of  this  descrip- 
tion carries  one  twelve-inch  board  rib  atop  its  dugout 
gunwale,  and  is  from  twenty  to  twenty-five  feet  long. 

Paddles  are  very  much  of  a type  with  short,  heart- 
shaped  to  roundish  heads,  which  are  decorated  in 
primal  colours  with  lines  or  squares  or  other  simple 
forms,  as  individual  fancy  dictates.  Handles  vary 
in  length  with  the  size  of  dugout,  except  on  the  lower 
Orinoco  and  Rio  de  la  Plata,  where  the  rough  water 
requires  always  a longer  handle  as  well  as  a larger 
blade.  On  the  upper  Orinoco  beyond  Esmeralda  I 
found  a very  distinct  heart-shaped  unpainted  blade, 
made  of  a beautiful  wood,  which  glistened  in  the 
water  like  burnished  gold. 

The  large  batelao  is  propelled  by  oars  from  atop 
the  toldo  or  from  its  deck  when  smaller,  or  by  track- 
ing and  poling.  It  all  depends  on  the  character  of 
the  river  and  whether  your  course  is  up  or  down 
stream.  In  going  down  stream  you  keep  the  middle 
of  the  river  to  enjoy  the  full  force  of  the  current  as 
you  float,  or  perhaps  sail  along  with  a little  easy 
paddling  or  rowing  to  hold  direction  and  secure  extra 
speed.  That  is  the  luxury  of  river  travel ; but  going 
up  is  quite  another  story.  In  the  middle  of  the  river 
it  is  impossible  to  make  way  against  the  current,  so 
you  cling  to  the  bank,  following  faithfully  all  the 
turns  of  a much  turning  river,  except  where  a deep 
bay  tempts  a crossing— and  you  pull  your  heart  out 
before  reaching  the  bank  again.  Only  on  the  first 
stretch  of  the  lower  Orinoco  where  its  course  is  west 
may  upstream  work  be  lightened;  here  the  summer 
trade  winds  from  the  Atlantic  often  make  sailing  pos- 
sible as  far  as  Caicara,  where  the  river  turns  south. 

The  very  slow  pace  of  the  batelao  was  maddening 


30 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


to  me  at  first,  I confess,  despite  the  novel  method 
of  propulsion,  but  when  a later  acquired  small  uba 
provided  means  for  exploring  the  many  “canos,” — 
the  back  water  canals  made  by  the  rising  river  and  the 
tributaries  coming  in  from  the  north  bank  to  which 
we  clung, — I found  the  thirty-four  days’  journey  to 
San  Gabriel  after  I became  the  supercargo  of  the 
batelao  (March  9th)  none  too  long.  No  day  was 
without  its  interest.  Nothing,  however,  relieved  or 
shortened  the  nights.  The  rain,  which  we  did  not  so 
much  mind  in  the  day,  because  it  clouded  the  other- 
wise blistering  sun,  even  if  it  failed  to  cool  the  atmos- 
phere, made  sleeping  a dispiriting  series  of  catnaps, 
with  alternate  boat  bailing  and  clothes  wringing. 
Rain  or  shine,  however,  we  were  off  always  at  day- 
light, and,  though  we  kept  going  until  an  hour  or  so 
after  dark,  as  conditions  permitted,  we  never  at  our 
fastest  made  over  twenty  miles  a day,  and  I doubt  if 
our  average  exceeded  fifteen. 

]\Iy  crew  of  nine  Indians  were  all  from  above 
San  Gabriel,  but  of  several  types;  one  Negroid, 
another  Semitic,  others  of  the  lank  variety  which  ap- 
pears to  predominate  in  this  section. 

Alleo,  the  “ patron  ” or  captain  of  the  crew,  was  a 
wizened  little  man  about  sixty  years  of  age,  and 
scarcely  five  feet  five  inches  in  height  or  one  hundred 
and  twenty-five  pounds  in  weight,  but  when  he  squat- 
ted I never  saw  body  of  man  hang  so  straight  from 
the  knees  without  touching  ground.  Sometime  during 
an  excess  of  artificial  joy  he  had  lost  the  top  section 
of  his  left  ear,  but  he  was  obviously  proud  of  the 
two  or  three  tufts  of  hair  decorating  his  upper  lip. 
Also  he  sported  a felt  hat  jammed  over  a straw  one. 


A STEERSMAN  WITH  CONVICTIONS  31 


as  well  as  a rather  frisky  shirt  cut  off  midway  to 
the  loin-cloth  he  wore  when  it  rained,  but  replaced 
at  other  times  by  the  cotton  jumper-shirts  and 
overalls  with  which  the  men  clothed  themselves  fully 
in  clear  weather.  Clothes,  I may  add,  were  valued 
chiefly  as  protection  against  the  sun;  whenever  it 
rained  they  were  carefully  tucked  away  under  the 
toldo. 

Alleo  was  a steersman  with  convictions;  he  stood 
with  one  foot  on  top  of  the  toldo  supporting  his 
weight,  the  other  guiding  the  tiller,  while  one  hand 
emphasized  his  brief  directions  and  the  other  searched 
his  anatomy  for  insects.  Because  of  his  expressive 
hands  and  badgering  inflection,  I always  wished  to 
understand  what  Alleo  said  to  his  men,  but  they 
chattered  a patois  of  which  I could  catch  no  meaning. 
He  never  relaxed  a stern  countenance  at  these  mo- 
ments ; nor  by  any  chance  allowed  himself  to  be  drawn 
into  argument.  His  orders  were  curt  and  decisive. 
He  was  always  an  alert  and  rakish  figure  outlined 
atop  the  toldo,  far  and  away  the  best  man  in  the 
boat — in  fact  one  of  the  most  competent  steersmen 
I met  on  the  flowing  road. 

Yeggo  was  the  fisherman  of  the  party,  and  long 
after  the  others  had  turned  in  at  night,  the  swish  of 
his  line  could  be  heard.  He  baited  by  preference 
with  a mantis — a four  or  five  inch  “ walking-stick  ” 
grasshopper  kind  of  creature,  which  turned  a round 
head  on  a long  neck  and  fixed  me  rather  eerily  with 
prominent  eyes  as  I sought  to  catch  it.  When  I 
failed  he  used  farinha,*  and  appeared  quite  as  suc- 


• Also  called  mandioca — the  native  meal  or  flour. 


32 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


cessfully  to  hook  a one  or  two  pound  gray-and-black 
trout-shaped  fish,  with  dark,  bulging  eyes.  As  a 
worker,  however,  Yeggo  did  not  shine.  He  was  for- 
ever cutting  capers  on  the  batelao,  often  indeed  to 
our  loss  of  a point  rounded  after  hardest  struggling. 
Nor  did  Yeggo  rate  high  as  to  looks,  with  his  bridge- 
less nose,  close-set  eyes,  and  file-pointed  teeth  show- 
ing through  a cavernous  mouth.  In  common  with  so 
many  others,  his  legs  and  hands  bore  the  white- 
spotted  souvenirs  of  the  prevalent  skin  disease.  His 
dearest  possession  seemed  to  be  a dirty  straw  hat 
several  sizes  too  small,  which,  therefore,  was  ever  fall- 
ing from  his  head  and  being  replaced  to  fall  again  at 
his  first  strenuous  movement. 

And  whenever  we  were  hardest  pressed,  Yeggo 
invariably  lost  that  irritating  hat,  always  letting  go 
the  pulling-rope  to  recover  it,  no  matter  how  much  we 
needed  his  weight  on  the  line.  One  day  I took  him 
with  me  on  an  inland  trip  and  lost  the  hat — as  you 
will  learn  in  a subsequent  chapter. 

The  best-looking  Indian  type  on  the  boat  was 
Ramon,  who,  among  a broad-footed  people,  had 
the  broadest  feet  I ever  beheld,  and  used  them  on 
the  ropes  almost  as  readily  as  his  hands.  Save  this 
man,  none  of  the  crew  stood  more  than  five  feet  six 
inches  in  height,  or  weighed  over  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds;  but  they  all  had  round,  full  stomachs,  due 
no  doubt  to  frequent  and  heavy  mandioca  feeding, 
and  so  at  least  looked  well  nourished.  Neither  this 
lot  of  men,  however,  nor  any  others  I had  on  the 
flowing  road,  were  impressive  as  to  physique. 

It  is  a fallacy  that  wilderness  people  are  necessar- 
ily robust  merely  because  they  lead  a simple  life.  The 


WORKING  UP  RIVER  RY  THE  PUSHING  AND  PULLING  METHOD 


MY  BATELAO  TIED  TO  THE  CHARACTERISTIC  GRANITE  BOULDER  OUTCROPPING  ALONG 
THE  NEGRO.  THE  INDIAN  IN  THE  FOREGROUND  CARRIES 
A PUSHING  POLE 


A FEAST  OR  A FAMINE 


33 


truth  is  they  are  not  robust,  so  far  as  my  experience 
goes  along  the  waterways  of  South  America  from  the 
Hio  de  la  Plata  of  the  Argentine  to  the  Portuguesa 
of  Venezuela,  though  they  are  patient  and  enduring. 
Alternate  stuffing  and  fasting,  and  exposure,  are 
not  the  builders  of  rugged  constitutions.  Fish,  dried 
meat  in  the  sections  within  reach  of  supplies,  and 
mandioca,  or  farinha  as  the  Brazilians  call  it,  may  be 
declared  the  staple  food  of  the  Indian  from  Venezuela 
to  the  Argentine.  There  are  seasons  and  regions 
when  and  where  water-fowl,  the  widely  distributed 
curassow  family,  the  agouti,  or  other  members  of 
the  extensive  rodent  tribe,  contribute  to  their  food 
supplies.  There  are  also  places  and  times  where  and 
when  they  must  resort  to  eating  snakes,  lizards,  and 
vermin.  But  for  the  greater  time  they  feed  on  fish 
and  mandioca — ^the  bran-like  meal  which  is  made 
from  the  root  of  a yucca  plant.  Tourists  that  ven- 
ture no  farther  than  the  comfortable  ports  are  apt  to 
indulge  themselves  in  ill-natured,  unfair  and  uncom- 
prehending comment  on  these  unhappily  situated 
people  because  of  their  lack  of  the  finer  qualities 
and  generous  impulses:  how  can  such  attributes  be 
expected  of  a man  whose  entire  life  is  occupied  in 
ceaseless  struggle  merely  to  keep  alive? 

They  work  fitfully,  and  their  casual  methods 
would  inflame  one  unaccustomed  to  travel  in  the 
tropics.  For  instance,  on  my  batelao,  in  the  midst 
of  hauling  through  rapids,  one  of  the  crew  was  just 
as  apt  as  not  to  let  go  the  rope  to  make  a cigarette 
or  hunt  for  vermin  or  inspect  a cut  toe.  Of  fourteen 
men  I used  on  one  occasion  in  the  rapids,  four  were 
engaged  taking  in  on  two  ropes,  four  in  putting  the 


34 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


cable  aboard  the  uba — leaving  six  who  were  doing 
the  actual  pulling.  And  though  a man  might 
“ soldier  ” patently  and  eonstantly,  yet  none  of  the 
others  objeeted.  For  example,  the  stern-port  oar 
on  the  small  batelao  in  whieh  we  journeyed  from 
Santa  Isabel  to  the  home  of  my  new-found  Brazilian 
friend,  was  constantly  stopping  to  study  his  toes  or 
to  dig  an  insect  from  under  his  skin — but  no  one 
protested  though  the  going  was  very  hard  and  the 
erew  small.  Not  even  Netto  ealled  him  to  order: 
the  other  Indians  laughed;  Netto  ate  raisins.  Such 
is  rapid  transit  in  Brazil. 

My  batelao  was  large  and  heavily  laden,  and 
we  progressed  by  a species  of  tracking,  and  by 
pulling  and  pushing  along  the  forest-lined  bank — 
a method  of  poling  peculiar  to  the  flowing 
road.  Seven  of  the  crew  remained  on  the  boat,  Alleo, 
of  course,  at  the  tiller,  and  two — changed  daily,  for 
it  was  much  the  easiest  task — scouted  ahead  in  the 
uba  for  rocks  or  points  to  which  the  hauling-cable 
could  be  attached.  Thus  six  men  were  always  on 
the  poles,  divided  equally  as  pullers  and  pushers. 
The  puller  used  a thirty-foot  pliable  pole  having  a 
natural  hook  at  the  far  end;  it  was  his  business  to 
fasten  to  some  limb  ahead,  and,  by  walking  down 
the  length  of  the  batelao,  so  help  drag  us  forward. 
The  pusher  used  a twenty-foot  stiffer  pole  terminat- 
ing in  a short,  stout  fork,  which  by  preference  he 
fixed  against  the  river  bottom  when  he  could  reach 
it,  or  seated  it  against  a limb  of  a passing  tree.  Some- 
times as  a pusher  set  his  weight  on  the  pole  he  went 
overboard  amid  the  united  shouts  of  the  crew;  and 
often  there  was  a voluntary  scramble  into  the  water 
to  capture  a marsupial  rodent,  somewhat  larger 


A VICIOUS  WASP 


36 


than  a big  prairie-dog  and  fair  eating,  which  had 
been  hooked  out  of  a tree. 

Frequently,  too,  there  was  a general  plunge  into 
the  river  by  all  hands  to  escape  the  attack  of  a vicious 
black-and-yellow-striped  wasp  which  attacked  with 
the  speed  of  lightning  and  the  ferocity  of  a tiger.  Nor 
was  it  to  be  evaded;  you  could  only  protect  your 
eyes  with  your  hands,  and,  for  the  rest,  take  what  was 
coming,  rejoicing  that  its  habit  is  not  to  linger,  but 
to  sting  in  passing — a sting,  I may  add,  which  is  like 
the  touch  of  a glowing-hot  needle.  Having  been 
stung  one  afternoon  into  a reckless  retaliatory 
humour,  I routed  a colony  and  secured  its  house — a 
light  gray  earthen  cylinder,  one  and  a half  inches 
in  diameter  by  four  in  height — which  sat  upright 
on  the  limb  of  a tree. 

Not  all  my  crew  were  skilful,  yet  one  was  a 
master.  Standing  at  the  bow,  he  handled  his  pole 
like  a six-ounce  trout-rod,  never  failing  to  land  upon 
an  overhanging  limb  at  just  the  moment  necessary 
to  draw  the  bow  shoreward  as  it  turned  out-stream 
because  of  slovenly  work  of  some  pusher  walking 
astern.  Here  is  the  real  skill  in  this  kind  of  locomo- 
tion— to  keep  the  boat  going  comparatively  straight 
ahead,  instead  of  swinging  in  and  out  in  response 
to  the  individual  efforts  of  the  pole-men.  I have 
seen  this  particular  man  hook  on  to  roots  under 
water  not  visible  to  my  eye,  or  on  to  a log  floating 
just  below  the  surface,  as  does  so  much  of  the  heavy 
tropic  driftwood.  To  decide  at  once,  to  hook  in- 
stantly, to  move  as  an  endless  chain  down  the  shore 
side  and  up  the  stream  side  is  what  makes  a good 
tracking  crew  and  keeps  the  boat  going. 

And  not  the  least  necessity  to  fair  batelao  progress 


36 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


is  honest  work  by  the  scouts  in  the  uba  who  have  un- 
excelled opportunities  for  loafing,  and  can  easily  make 
a difference  one  way  or  the  other  of  several  miles  in 
the  day’s  score.  The  uba  carries  about  one  hundred 
yards  of  stout  three-inch  cable  (made,  as  is  all  rope 
in  this  country,  of  the  piassava  fibre)  which  the  scouts 
fasten  to  an  advantageous  point  where  the  water 
is  swift,  or  to  the  far  bank  of  a bay,  paddling  back 
with  the  other  end  as  fast  as  they  can  to  the  approach- 
ing batelao,  where  the  men  simply  walk  it  in.  This 
is  a much  swifter  method  than  poling  and  may  raise 
the  pace  to  two  miles  the  hour.  Occasionally  on 
stretches  where  neither  pole  nor  cable  could  be  used 
we  were  obliged  to  resort  to  the  oars,  and  then  our 
rate  of  travel  fell  to  the  lowest,  or  scarcely  a mile 
an  hour.  Except  when  toiling  up  through  the  rapids, 
the  heavily  forested  banks  enabled  us  to  employ  the 
combined  poling  and  hauling,  by  which  we  averaged 
at  the  best  about  one  and  a half  miles. 

Whatever  the  method  of  progression,  these 
Rio  Negro  Indians  were  usually  cheerful;  the  best- 
natured  people  I ever  fell  among.  They  were  always 
ready  with  a laugh,  often  singing  at  their  work — 
if  the  rain  was  not  too  severe;  like  children,  as,  in- 
deed, most  wilderness  people  are.  If  one  of  the 
crew  missed  an  overhanging  limb  and  fell  into  the 
river,  if  the  uba  was  caught  under  the  cable  and 
upset,  the  others  indulged  in  raillery.  If  the  boat 
swung  around  at  a rapid  or  broke  away,  requiring 
extra  effort  to  repair  the  damage,  every  one  laughed 
as  he  set  to  the  task.  Had  they,  however,  promptly 
jumped  into  the  breach  and  laughed  afterward,  we 
would  have  made  better  time  on  the  long  journey 
at  less  expense  of  bodily  effort.  They  had  good 


THE  HAPPY-GO-LUCKY  RIVERMEN 


37 


nature  and  patience  in  plenty,  but  more  alertness 
and  instant  application  of  energy  would  have  given 
less  need  of  patience.  Their  way  was  to  laugh  while 
they  viewed  the  barrel  roll  down-hill,  and  then  set 
to  work  rolling  it  up  again,  rather  than  to  check  its 
flight  at  the  top  of  the  hill. 

In  a broad  sense  they  are  of  the  Tupi  family, 
though  so  crossed  with  other  Indians,  Portuguese, 
Brazilians,  and  negroes  as  to  have  lost  nearly  all 
tribal  traditions  and  customs.  As  a rule,  they  bring 
no  highly  developed  skill  to  their  handiwork — the 
possibilities  of  the  poling  are  only  half  realized,  save 
in  exceptional  cases.  Although  in  individual  cases 
clever  beyond  comparison  in  handling  canoes  at 
the  cataracts  with  which  the  rivers  are  all  plentifully 
supplied,  they  appear  in  general  to  take  no  pride  in 
expertness  with  the  implement  by  which  they  travel 
or  secure  food  that  corresponds  to  the  American 
Indian’s  esteem  of  paddle  skill,  or  the  Canadian 
Indian’s  regard  for  speed  on  snow-shoes  or  dexter- 
ous handling  of  dogs.  On  the  river  they  are  not 
to  be  mentioned  in  the  same  breath  with  those  con- 
summate watermen  of  Malaya  and  Siam.  A little 
effort  and  a heavy  dependence  on  luck — that’s  about 
their  gait.  Often  we  ran  on  rocks  which  should 
have  been  easily  avoided  by  men  whose  life’s  work 
is  the  handling  of  boats.  Daily  in  rounding  boulder 
points  in  rapid  water,  the  bow  was  permitted  to 
swing  out  on  a carelessly  slack  and  unattended  rope, 
sometimes  resulting  in  the  escape  of  the  boat  and 
subsequent  disaster  among  the  roeks ; while  in  getting 
out  of  difficulties  there  was  a surprising  lack  of 
intelligently  applied  skill. 

Big  as  the  batelao  was,  it  had  no  room  for  a 


38 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


supercargo.  The  days  for  the  most  part  I spent 
exploring  the  interior;  the  nights  aboard  among  the 
loud-smelhng  pirarucu — how  I loathed  the  odour  of 
that  fish  as  the  journey  lengthened!  My  days  on 
the  boat,  as  few  as  possible  you  may  be  sure,  were 
chiefly  occupied  in  dodging  either  the  poles  or  the 
tree  branches  which  raked  us  fore  and  aft  as  we 
clung  to  the  bank,  or  the  wasps  and  the  ants  that 
often  swept  upon  us  in  swarms.  And  whenever  we 
sought  the  easier  going  of  a narrower  channel,  as 
for  example  between  an  island  and  the  river  bank, 
always  the  insect  life  became  more  active. 

The  forest  continued  the  same  dense  hedge. 
Sometimes  where  the  bank  was  exposed,  slender 
pendants  screened  the  view  in  running  loops  or  hung 
straight  to  the  ground  from  the  tree-limbs  to  take 
root  and  send  forth  their  own  little  shoots — for 
tropical  nature  is  opposed  to  the  unit.  I found  it 
very  interesting.  My  favourite  lookout  was  on  top 
the  forward  end  of  the  toldo,  where,  flat  on  my 
stomach,  with  hands  and  feet  braced  against  the 
framework,  I managed  to  keep  from  being  torn  off 
by  the  branches  about  half  the  time — Alleo  quite 
approving  my  position,  as  much  of  the  insect  life  was 
thus  deposited  on  me  before  reaching  him.  When 
not  engaged  in  thus  holding  on  for  dear  life  to  my 
perch,  I watched,  if  the  sun  shone,  for  birds  and 
butterflies,  and  studied  the  small,  stingless,  yellow 
bees — called  “ angelitos  ” (little  angels)  by  the  Vene- 
zuelans, which  settled  in  hundreds  on  the  piassava 
cable  hung  across  the  toldo. 

I was  surprised  not  to  see  more  birds  on  the  banks, 


BIRDS  OF  THE  RIO  NEGRO 


39 


though  when  the  sky  was  clear  always  some  voices 
were  heard  issuing  from  the  jungle  as  we  passed,  and 
rarely  were  the  voices  pleasing.  There  is  one  bird 
inhabitant  of  river  Brazil,  however,  that  makes  up  for 
the  song  delinquencies  of  many  others;  this  is  the 
japim,*  a liquid-noted,  black  member  of  the  oriole 
family,  with  a yellow  back,  yellow  eye  and  whitish  bill. 
These  birds  build  in  colonies  a fourteen  to  sixteen 
inch  grass  woven  pendent  pouch  (entered  near  the 
bottom  on  the  side),  and  I have  seen  a tree  nigh  full 
of  their  swaying  nests,  which  sometimes  are  even  two 
feet  or  more  in  length.  They  are  pert  and  active  and 
busy  music  makers,  with  an  ever-changing  song  which 
takes  on  the  notes  of  many  neighbours, — for  the  japim 
is  an  excellent  mimic.  Among  his  virtues  is  a pen- 
chant for  the  young  of  the  wasp  with  the  electric 
stinger. 

I remarked  as  we  moved  along  upon  the  many 
whistling  notes  sounding  inland — one  a short,  sharp 
explosion,  followed  by  a kind  of  catbird  call.  A 
bluish  gray  bodied  kingfisher  twice  the  size  of  our 
common  variety  I saw  often,  and  a dashing  figure  he 
made,  with  a white  slashing  encircling  his  throat.  At 
dusk,  and  only  at  dusk,  unless  it  was  raining,  I almost 
invariably  saw  on  the  Rio  Negro  a brown  bird  having 
white  splotches  on  neck  and  shoulder,  and  a hawk-like 


* This  is  the  cassique  {Cassicus  persicus),  very  generally 
distributed  in  South  America,  north  of  the  Amazon,  but  not 
to  be  mistaken  for  the  Central  American  troupial,  which  is 
not  a hang-nest ; or  confused  with  the  common  yellow  oriole  of 
black  back  and  dark  bill  and  eye. 


40 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


head,  which  was  accompanied  by  another  I never 
could  see  that  gave  voice  to  a plaintive  three-note 
song,  so  unusual  in  its  soft  melody  as  to  arrest  atten- 
tion and  please  mightily. 

You  half  see  so  many  things  and  hear  so  much  of 
which  you  would  learn  more ; — that’s  the  exasperation 
of  such  journeying. 

The  really  interesting  bird  display  is  inland,  those 
on  the  river  being  largely  the  parrots,  constantly  in 
the  air,  and  striking  in  colour  combinations — one  had 
a blue  back  and  wings  and  yellow  breast — but  noisy  to 
distraction;  the  brilliant  macaws  in  their  reds  and 
greens  and  blues  and  yellows,  always  in  pairs  and  fly- 
ing fast  and  high;  and  an  occasional  toucan — a re- 
cluse that  seeks  the  denser  foliage — with  its  ungainly 
great  yellow  bill  and  black  and  green  body.  Like 
the  elephant,  the  parrot  and  its  entire  family,  in- 
cluding the  screaming  little  brother  parrakeets,  are 
very  destructive  eaters,  wasting  much  more  than  they 
consume.  They  are  all  fairly  palatable,  but  the 
macaws  require  a lot  of  boiling,  as  the  flesh  is  tough 
beyond  anything  on  two  legs. 

At  sundown  a long,  doleful  bird  whistle  is  heard ; 
parrots  chatter  noisily  until  dusk  falls;  and  then  the 
frogs  take  up  their  refrain. 

The  butterflies  were  lovely  beyond  description, 
and  I luxuriated  in  their  glory  on  my  inland  trips  as 
well  as  on  sunshiny  days  from  the  toldo,  even  though 
their  presence  meant  scorching  heat.  The  air  was 
full  of  them.  From  a tiny  yellow  to  a superb  purple 
as  large  as  my  hand,  they  fluttered  hither  and  yon,  in 
all  sizes  and  of  every  colour — noticeably  in  shades  of 
blues  and  yellows  and  reds — very  yellow  yellows. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  BUTTERFLIES 


41 


burning  scarlets,  lustrous  blues,  and  velvet  purples. 
An  entire  insect  might  be  solid  scarlet,  or  blue,  or 
yellow,  with  slight  markings  of  contrasting  colours. 
One  I caught  was  a golden  yellow  throughout ; another 
was  a deep  crimson  with  under  wings  a paler  shade 
and  black  lines  crossing  the  body;  another  was  all 
white  save  for  a blue  circle  on  each  wing.  How  often 
I regretted  not  bringing  a hand-net ! 

One  day  I spied  a beauty  on  the  water  where  it  had 
been  knocked  from  a limb  by  the  passing  batelao.  In 
reaching  for  it  I fell  into  the  river,  and  when  I had 
swum  within  arm’s-length,  it  righted  itself  and  flew 
away.  Except  for  one  other  I found  on  the  upper 
Orinoco,  it  was  the  most  brilliant  of  the  countless 
host  of  beauties.  Its  body  was  a deep  purple  with 
black  and  gold  markings,  the  under  wings  of  a light 
or  sky  blue.  Some  handsome  moths  of  large  size 
were  also  in  evidence.  One  I caught  had  a body  over 
two  inches  in  length,  scarlet  wings  with  deeper  self 
markings  and  a kind  of  gray  colouring  underneath. 
A great  resplendent  darning-needle  zigzagged  fre- 
quently among  the  butterflies,  and  always  when  the 
sun  shone,  and  for  as  long  as  it  shone,  there  sounded 
the  metallic  singing  of  a cicada,  which  shrieked  un- 
ceasingly, like  an  axle  revolving  a thousand  times  a 
minute  and  screeching  for  oil. 

The  temperature,  by-the-way,  ranged  from  88° 
to  96°  in  the  coolest  spot  I could  place  my  ther- 
mometer on  the  batelao  of  bright  days,  and  110°  to 
120°  in  the  sun.  Under  clouded  skies  the  mercury 
stood  at  90°  in  the  day,  and,  at  night,  about  80°. 
It  is  noteworthy,  too,  that  at  this  registry  a penetrat- 
ing chill  in  the  air  before  dawn  made  a very  light 


42 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


blanket  comfortable,  in  addition  to  light  flannel 
pajamas.  Inland  the  mercury  rarely  fell  below  85° 
during  the  night,  and  frequently  remained  at  88°  or 
even  90°.  On  such  nights  the  insects  held  high 
carnival — and  every  member  of  the  South  American 
insect  world  is  a militant  member. 

While  nothing  like  so  plentiful  on  the  black,  vege- 
table-stained rivers  as  on  the  yellowish  or  white  ones, 
the  insects  which  frequent  the  Rio  Negro  appear 
to  be  a choice  stinging  lot,  even  though  they  are  in 
truth  indiflferent  workmen  by  comparison  vith  those 
of  the  upper  Orinoco  and  the  Casiquiare.  The 
demon  of  the  Negro  is  a busy  gnat  of  several  sizes 
called  “ pium.”  Unlike  the  wasp  of  swift  attack, 
the  pium  comes  without  warning  and  to  remain.  You 
may  kill  it,  but  your  trouble  is  brewing  none  the  less 
in  the  tiny  blood  dot  marking  the  scene  of  its  feast. 
Of  insect  visitations,  however,  the  ants  were  perhaps 
the  most  troublesome.  With  and  without  wings, 
harmless  and  vicious,  ashore  and  afloat — they  came 
upon  us  in  active  myriads.  On  occasion  the  batelao 
and  the  toldo,  inside  and  out,  would  be  so  literally 
covered  that  we  had  to  tie  up  and  all  hands  clear — 
and  clean — ship. 

We  made  long  days,  turning  out  before  dawn  at 
six  o’clock  and  starting  with  little  delay,  as  the 
Indians  made  breakfast  on  a “ cuia  ” (gourd)  of 
farinha,  and  I on  coffee  straight,  if  it  were  not  raining. 
This  would  carry  us  to  midday,  when,  some  time  be- 
tween twelve  and  two,  usually  there  was  a let-up  in  the 
rain,  and  we  would  have  our  one  real  meal  of  the  day, 
consisting  of  coffee,  dried  fish  and  rice.  Then  we’d 
travel  on  until  dark,  about  six-thirty,  unless  the  sky 


HAULING  AND  PUSHING  AROUND  THE  ROCKS 


THE  FROG  CHORUS 


43 


was  free  of  rain  clouds,  when  we’d  go  on  an  hour  or 
two  longer.  No  fire  was  made  night  or  morning  if  it 
rained,  and  we  fared  off  farinha,  which  needs  but  a 
little  cold  water  to  prepare  it  for  eating.  When  the 
day  had  been  exceptionally  hard  or  wet  I generally 
gave  the  men  a small  horn  of  cachaca — as  the  native 
rum  is  called — to  fortify  their  heart  and  warm  their 
rain  soaked  bodies.  Likewise  I found  the  potion  most 
persuasive  in  inducing  to  urgent  effort.  Indeed  a 
bit  of  cachaca  for  the  man,  and  a little  bottle  of  per- 
fume for  the  woman  will  open  a way  where  money, 
entreaty  or  threats  are  unavailing.  I always  carried 
a demijohn  of  this  rum  among  my  stores,  and  found 
it,  together  with  a plentiful  supply  of  tobacco,  of 
inestimable  service  in  trading. 

When  the  sun  shone  the  glare  from  the  reflecting 
black  river  was  blinding.  On  clear  nights  the  stars 
were  mirrored  in  the  Negro  as  in  a Claude  Lorraine 
glass. 

Thus  from  bush  to  tree,  from  rock  to  root,  pull- 
ing, hauling,  poling,  most  of  the  time  in  the  rain,  we 
worked  our  way  from  point  to  point,  from  island 
to  island.  Usually  we  tied  up  for  the  night  along 
the  bank,  where  the  insects  love  to  dwell  and  the 
anvil  chorus  of  the  frogs  swells  its  loudest;  but  when 
we  could  we  camped  on  a point  of  rocks  or  sand, 
to  secure  some  relief  from  the  pests.  Often  we  en- 
countered stretches  of  rocks  and  rapids  extending 
entirely  across  the  river,  where  our  only  way  of  ad- 
vancing beyond  such  obstruction  was  by  hauling  from 
boulder  to  boulder,  sometimes  thus  crossing  to  the 
opposite  bank  and  back  again  in  the  same  arduous, 
time-consuming  manner.  It  was  slow  work,  and  it 


44 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


was  hard  work,  and  once  we  nearly  ended  our  river 
journey  in  the  midst  of  such  a crossing. 

We  had  been  all  day  toiling  through  this  going, 
under  continuous  rain,  and  had  come  finally,  long 
after  dark,  to  a forty  or  fifty  foot  squarish  rock-and- 
sand  island  in  the  middle  of  the  river  where  it  made 
a sharp  bend  and  sped  away  for  a mile  or  more  over 
a boulder-filled  bed.  Here,  on  the  down-stream  side, 
we  dragged  the  uba  onto  a diminutive  sand  beach  and 
tied  the  batelao  alongside,  probably  not  over  five 
miles  from  where  we  had  started  at  daylight.  It  was 
a picturesque  camp;  the  stars  shone  brilliantly  after 
a day  of  storm  and  clouds,  and  on  all  sides  loomed 
the  dark,  unbroken  line  of  forest.  The  crew  had 
spent  the  early  part  of  the  evening  seated  ashore 
around  a feeble  fire  of  driftwood  making  coffee  and 
jabbering,  smoking  and  laughing,  while  a cloud  of 
insects,  revealed  intermittently  by  the  flickering 
flame,  played  round  them  as  a halo.  Early  they  had 
subsided,  however  worn  by  the  day’s  work.  I could 
hear  their  sonorous  breathing  as  I lay  on  the  odorifer- 
ous pirarucu  aboard  the  batelao  watching  the  South- 
ern Cross  slowly  right  itself.  Once  in  a while  a shoot- 
ing-star, of  which  I saw  many  night  by  night,  dropped 
into  the  far  horizon,  while  on  either  side  of  us  the 
water  swirled  and  chirruped  and  danced  past  in  the 
vigorous  gladness  of  a rising  and  broken  river. 

Alternately  straining  on  its  painter  and  bumping 
against  the  rock  to  which  it  was  fastened,  the  batelao 
was  scarcely  a slumber  cradle,  so  I needed  no  awaken- 
ing when  a violent  bang  brought  me  up  standing; 
and  the  next  instant  I was  trying  to  check  the  loosed 
bow  which  was  swinging  down-stream.  But  the  only 


A RUNAWAY  BOAT 


45 


pole  on  board  was  a push-pole,  of  no  service  for  hook- 
ing and  holding,  and  by  the  time  I rushed  astern  I 
could  not  touch  bottom  though  I could  easily  have 
jumped  ashore.  Meanwhile  the  boat  was  going  out 
and  swinging  rapidly  to  the  current,  which,  luckily 
indeed,  was  so  swift  and  strong  that  it  had  turned 
the  bow  quite  around  by  the  time  I reached  the  tiller 
and  set  up  a hurricane  yelling  to  arouse  the  Indians, 
who  were  sleeping  comfortably,  unaware  of  my 
hurried,  not  to  say  disturbing,  departure  from  our 
island  camp. 

To  my  first  startled  look  down-stream  it  appeared 
a river  of  boulders,  and  as  we  sped  lurchingly  toward 
them,  I was  almost  overwhelmed  at  the  thought  of 
the  momentous  task  confronting  me.  Was  my  care- 
fully planned  trip  to  end  in  this  wreck?  Of  course 
a swamped  boat  in  that  torrent  meant  lost  provisions, 
and  lost  provisions  meant  a retreat  to  Manaos,  and 
abandonment  of  the  project  for  that  year  at  all  events. 
The  bare  suggestion  of  sueh  a disastrous  possibility 
was  certain  to  demoralize  or  to  steady  with  nerves  of 
steel;  fortunately  it  steadied.  My  first  impulse  was 
to  work  shoreward,  but  after  I felt  the  strength  of 
the  river,  whieh  hurled  the  boat  onward  like  a chip, 
I prayed  only  that  I might  steer  safely  and  keep 
thought  of  the  dire  eonsequences  of  failure  from 
putting  me  in  a blue  funk. 

Meanwhile  the  batelao  was  tearing  along,  swaying 
from  side  to  side  as  I put  up  or  jammed  down  the 
tiller  to  overcome  its  tendency  to  slide  off  the  course. 
Twice  we  narrowly  eseaped  being  flung  on  big  bould- 
ers where  the  water  swirled  at  their  base,  and  several 
times  the  scraping  of  the  bottom  raised  my  hair — the 


46 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


while  we  careened  and  plunged  in  the  half-light  which 
conjured  shapes  fantastic  and  awesome  and  confus- 
ing to  my  straining,  dreading  eyes.  At  last  I could 
hear  the  beat  of  paddles,  and  a joy  wave  lifted  me  as 
I realized  the  Indians  were  overtaking  us,  and  my 
course  nearly  run  with  success.  On  the  moment 
of  the  thought  came  the  harsh  warning  of  a scraping 
bow — which  I heeded  by  putting  the  tiller  hard  over — 
followed  instantly  by  a sudden  stop  and  a swerve 
which  sent  me  over  the  side  into  the  water,  to  be 
swept  away  before  I scarce  could  comprehend  what 
had  happened. 

That  current  was  too  strong  for  me  to  breast, 
but  before  it  carried  me  down  I was  thankful  to 
see  the  batelao  held  fast,  and  that  the  uba  and  the 
Indians  were  near-by.  Sweeping  me  along  without 
ceremony,  the  river  demanded  my  best  efforts  to  keep 
it  from  battering  me  against  the  rocks,  and  no 
small  struggle  ensued  before  I finally  pulled  myself 
out  on  a slippery  boulder  in  mid-stream,  quite  a mile 
below  the  boat,  which  itself  was  two  miles  from  camp. 
Here  the  Indians  found  me  at  daylight. 

By  noon  we  floated  the  batelao,  which  providen- 
tially had  run  upon  a flat,  sloping  rock,  and  by  the 
close  of  day  had  recovered  the  lost  ground  and  were 
again  tied  up,  this  time  on  the  other  side  of  the  rock- 
island  whence  I had  begun  my  exciting  flight  the 
night  before. 

Why  had  we  broken  loose?  Oh,  Yeggo  had 
fastened  the  boat  with  a piassava  tie-rope,  of  which 
two  of  its  four  strands  were  severed!  Thereafter  I 
never  turned  in  without  giving  the  moorings  personal 
inspection. 


CHAPTER  III 
VOYAGING  OVERLAND 


Travel  was  growing  more  difficult.  In  gaining 
half  of  the  forty-five  feet  which  marks  the  extremes 
between  low  water  in  December  and  high  water  in 
June,  the  river  had  so  strengthened  its  already  stout 
current  that  we  could  scarcely  make  one  mile  the 
hour,  while  the  contributary  streams  coming  in  from 
the  north  fiung  themselves  upon  us  with  added  force 
and  pace,  as  we  laboriously  hauled  and  paddled 
across  their  mouths.  But  if  the  rapidly  rising  Negi-o 
was  making  more  arduous  our  progress  with  the 
batelao,  it  was  also  lending  success  to  my  inland  canoe 
trips  by  increasing  the  number  and  volume  of  the 
“ igarapees  and  generously  overflowing  the  con- 
tiguous land,  so  as  to  afford  me  opportunity  of  pen- 
etrating farther  and  farther  into  the  jungle. 

To  really  see  the  marvellous  fecundity  and  intri- 
cacy of  its  vegetable  life,  one  must  pass  behind  the 
half-concealing  drop  curtain  nature  hangs  along  the 
river  bank.  Of  such  opportunity  I took  full  advan- 
tage. Sometimes  through  a passage  not  over  six  feet 
wide,  opening  directly  off  the  swirling,  noisy  river,  I 
passed  through  the  dense  overhanging  growth  at  the 
bank  into  submerged  woodland  where  reigned  the 
oppressive  silence  of  primeval  forest;  now  a little 
river,  after  many  windings  and  cross  canals,  led 
finally  to  a lagoon  whose  shores  teemed  with  bird  life ; 
yet  again  the  igarapee  widened  and  narrowed  and 

* A canal  in  Brazil;  same  as  cano  in  Venezuela. 


47 


48 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


widened  once  more,  twisting  through  forest  and 
campo  to  end  far  inland  in  pond  or  perhaps  continue 
on  to  another,  or  even  two  or  three  such  expansions 
before  running  its  length.  And  all  the  wliile,  whether 
the  road  was  narrow  or  wide,  or  across  lagoon  or 
along  igarapee,  it  led  through  a wonderland,  where 
the  flora  amazed,  and  the  small  reptilia  scurried  hither 
and  yon  as  I journeyed  on  however  silently. 

On  the  second  morning  following  my  night  ad- 
venture with  the  batelao  among  the  rocks,  we  came 
to  where  the  Negro  opened  into  a large  bay  full 
five  miles  from  its  top  to  the  south  bank  of  the  river. 
By  noon  we  had  worked  around  to  the  upper  end, 
where  I discovered  a cove-like  neck  leading  inland 
tlu-ough  an  all  but  closed  passage,  so  mysterious  with 
its  veil  of  bush  and  swinging  vines  and  pendent  black 
fibre  swaying  to  the  wind  from  the  tree  branches, 
that  it  piqued  my  curiosity,  and  I determined  upon 
exploring  its  hidden  road.  'Taking  Yeggo,  whom 
with  his  bothersome  hat  the  patron  had  delegated  to 
the  service  of  my  inland  wanderings  because  he  was 
easiest  spared  from  the  crew,  I headed  into  the  little 
canal,  which  appeared  to  end  in  a wall  of  bramble. 
Nor  did  reality  belie  appearance,  for  here  the  stream 
narrowed  and  led  into  a tangle  of  bush  so  resistant, 
so  tenacious,  that  at  times  we  were  put  to  actually 
cutting  our  way  through.  After  a short  space,  how- 
ever, we  came  out  upon  an  igarapee  clear  of  obstruc- 
tion, but  of  no  great  width,  although  it  sent  off 
another  stream  of  equal  size  at  right  angles,  which, 
no  doubt,  finally  emerged  upon  the  Negro  above 
where  we  had  left  it — a not  uncommon  habit.  I have 
seen  an  igarapee  divide  itself  three  times  between  the 


EXPLORING  AN  INLAND  CANAL 


49 


lagoon  whence  it  started  and  the  river  into  which  it 
emptied  apparently  with  no  diminution  of  its  volume 
in  any  branch.  I have  noted  branches  where  no 
apparent  connection  existed  between  river  and 
lagoon,  or  where  was  no  lagoon  at  alll  The  ways 
of  the  Brazilian  igarapee,  like  those  of  the  cano,  its 
Spanish  counterpart,  are  devious,  indeed,  and  passeth 
the  understanding  of  the  mere  traveller  along  their 
sluggish  course. 

The  igarapee  upon  which  we  emerged  held  an 
unchanging,  howbeit  a crooked,  northerly  direction, 
widening  at  times  to  as  much  as  fifty  feet,  again 
narrowing  so  we  could  hardly  have  placed  the  canoe 
athwart  the  stream  between  its  densely  covered  banks. 
When  we  had  traversed  a couple  of  miles,  it  opened 
into  a tree-enclosed  lagoon  which  in  turn  spread  out 
so  that  we  soon  found  ourselves  travelling  as  if 
through  inundated  forest. 

And  now  perforce  we  went  slowly,  for  there  was 
neither  bank  nor  channel  to  guide  us,  through  lanes 
of  great-girthed  monarchs.  Here  piercing  the  loop  of 
hanging  vines;  there  dodging  the  entangling  meshes 
of  some  upstanding  wide-spreading  thorn-bearer; 
now  listening  to  the  subdued  music  of  the  batrachian 
host,  anon  gazing  hungrily  at  some  brilliant  orchid 
perched  temptingly  out  of  reach  just  above  us.  Thus, 
slowly,  quietly,  we  passed  on  and  on,  until  we 
appeared  to  be  in  the  very  heart  of  an  ancient  and 
submerged  wood.  Then  I moored  the  canoe  at  the 
side  of  a buttressed  giant  and  sat  feasting  my  eyes. 

Until  you  attain  to  some  familiarity  with  such 
a scene,  the  vista  is  one  maze  of  trailing,  looping, 
suspended  things,  with  the  actual  tree  trunks  loom- 


50 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


ing  vaguely  amid  the  festooning  vines  and  the  en- 
cumbering parasites.  Even  with  a clearing  vision 
you  find  it  well  nigh  impossible  to  single  out  indi- 
viduals at  any  distance  through  the  curtain  of  myriad 
pendants  which  in  places  hang  like  one  of  those 
Japanese  bamboo  door  screens,  dropping  from 
some  high  limb,  and  all  the  size  or  less  of  a lead 
pencil.  On  one  tree  I counted  twenty-three  such, 
hanging  from  forty  to  sixty  feet  without  other  attach- 
ment, straight  to  the  ground.  In  other  places,  they 
were  fewer  in  number  and  as  much  as  three  inches 
in  diameter  where  they  fell  from  the  limb  to  fasten 
themselves  to  the  ground  very  much  after  the  manner 
of  the  famous  banyan  tree  of  India.  Other  trees 
again,  sent  from  their  lower  limbs  veritable  multi- 
tudes of  these  pendants,  which  hung  only  part  of  the 
way  to  the  ground  and  were  so  small  as  to  look  like 
great,  coarse  hair. 

Yet  the  parasitic  growths  are  even  more  bewilder- 
ing, and  one,  which  for  want  of  a better  name  I will 
call  the  hanging  garden,  is  beautiful  beyond  any- 
thing I ever  saw  in  jungle  anywhere.  Varying  from 
one  to  two,  or  even  three  feet  in  diameter,  these  cling 
midway  of  the  straight  tree  trunk,  sometimes  on 
one  side,  sometimes  embracing  two  sides,  a collec- 
tion of  moss  and  mould  and  ferns,  glorified  by 
brilliant  single-coloured  flowers — occasionally  by  an 
orchid,  which  perhaps  may  have  been  at  once  their  nu- 
cleus and  inspiration.  A crude  description  is  this  of 
one  of  nature’s  wildest  and  loveliest  bouquets,  which, 
fixed  midair  in  the  gloom  of  the  forest,  are  like  radiant 
gems  nestling  in  dishevelled,  dark  hair,  and  must  be 
seen  to  be  appreciated. 


THE  MARVELLOUS  PARASITES 


51 


Of  single  expressions  of  marvellous  parasitic  orna- 
ments, the  number  is  legion,  but  I shall  mention  only 
one  or  two,  for  it  is  a subject  to  which  I can  do  scant 
justice,  and  I fear  to  bore  with  detail  rather  than  to 
interest.  One  queer  growth  is  about  the  size  and  ap- 
pearance of  a pineapple  top;  so  nearly  like  it,  you 
have  difficulty  at  first  in  persuading  yourself  it  has 
not  been  fixed  to  the  tree  by  some  jocular  aviator.  It 
grows  usually  in  the  crotch  of  the  limb  where  the 
latter  joins  the  trunk,  yet  often  it  is  found  on  the 
middle  of  the  limb,  sometimes  in  pairs,  suggesting 
potted  plants.  There  were  trees,  indeed,  which  bore 
these  parasites  on  all  main  top  limbs,  giving  a queer 
and  not  unattractive  effect. 

An  even  stranger  growth  was  a four  by  six  inch 
roundish  leaf  at  the  end  of  a clean,  long  stem,  which 
attached  itself  without  favour  or  regularity  here  and 
there  to  the  limbs,  swaying  in  the  air  like  a feather  at 
the  end  of  a pliant  vine  that  had  been  hurled  into  place 
by  some  tropic  Robin  Hood.  Another  form  some- 
what on  the  same  order  bore  a pond  lily  kind  of  leaf  at 
the  end  of  a shortish  stem,  which  adhered  to  the  tree 
with  neither  frequency  nor  order.  Other  trees,  un- 
hampered by  such  abnormal  growths,  bore  in  several 
instances  the  loveliest  burden  of  yellow  flowers 
stretching  canopy-like  over  a part  of  their  top.  One 
marvelled  at  the  vitality  of  trees  which  could  sustain 
such  a drain,  and  incidentally  I observed  that  smooth- 
barked  light-coloured  trunks  appeared  to  outnumber 
the  darker,  rougher  ones. 

On  every  side  were  the  patent  evidences  of  lavish 
nature.  From  the  stump  of  a six-inch  tree  broken  off 
near  its  top  had  sprung  a three-foot  shoot  bearing 


52 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


leaves.  Once  I picked  up  a nut  with  a one  foot  grow- 
ing twig  attached,  which  had  sprung  up  out  of  it 
while  it  lay  on  the  ground!  Again  I saw  a blue- 
flower-bearing  vine,  which  reaching  from  the  ground 
had  caught  and  entwined  a pendant  full  fifty  feet  in 
the  air — making  of  this  column  of  blue  blossoms 
against  the  deep  green  back-ground  a very  lovely 
spectacle. 

Only  in  Malaya,  have  I seen  such  luxuriance — 
and  not  there  anything  to  compare  with  the  hanging 
gardens.  On  the  other  hand,  the  fern  growth  of  the 
Malayan  and  Siamese  jungle,  gigantic  in  spread  and 
reach  and  marvellous  in  design,  has  no  equal  in  South 
America.  Nor,  in  the  South,  is  there  the  colouring  of 
the  Far  East,  or  the  ever  recurring  bamboo  with  its 
picturesquely  disordered  top, — or  the  leeches  which 
beset  the  wilderness  traveller  at  every  step.  I am 
referring  to  the  interior  not  to  the  jungle  edge,  which 
always  contains  more  life  and  is  more  colourful.  The 
Malaj^an  jungles  appear  less  encompassed  by  vast 
stretches  of  primeval  forest,  which  no  doubt  accounts 
for  their  advantage  in  colour.  The  dismal  solitudes 
of  the  South  American  forests  are  avoided  by  both 
the  sunlight  which  gives  colour,  and  the  life  that 
makes  exploration  interesting  rather  than  depressing. 

We  spent  an  entire  morning  paddling  in  this  way 
overland  through  the  forest,  in  which  was  entertain- 
ment in  plenty  to  keep  us  a day  or  more  had  I not 
wished  to  push  on  and  find  a place  where  we  might 
land.  So  for  an  hour  or  two  farther  we  went  along, 
working  out  to  the  edge  of  the  submerged  woodland, 
until  we  came  again  to  the  igarapee.  After  a bit  this 
led  us  in  turn  to  a lagoon  apparently  having  no  outlet 


BIRDS  OF  THE  LAGOON 


53 


other  than  that  through  which  we  had  come,  until, 
on  the  far  side  close  by  a huge  tree  with  three  great 
buttress  flanges  standing  out  half  a dozen  feet  at 
base,  we  found  an  opening  into  a stream  about  twenty 
feet  wide.  This  carried  us  through  a second  piece 
of  inundated  forest  before  bringing  us  to  another 
lagoon,  where,  because  the  surroundings  appeared 
like  terra  firma,  1 decided  to  disembark  for  a more 
extended  survey. 

A great  flapping  of  wings  and  a raising  of  bird 
voices,  mostly  displeasing,  greeted  our  landing. 
Somehow  I never  could  overcome  my  wonderment 
that  in  a land  where  there  is  so  much  to  please  the 
eye,  there  should  be  so  little  agreeable  to  the  ear. 
It  continues  always  strangely  incongruous  to  me  that 
these  tropical  birds,  so  brilliantly  painted,  should  for 
such  a majority  have  notes  so  unmusical.  The  rasp- 
ing toucan,  the  screaming  parrot  tribe,  the  croaking 
herons,  the  bugling  crane  clan,  the  shrill  complaints 
of  the  stilt-legged  family — what  an  unlovely  chorus 
they  make!  And  since  practically  all  the  noises  at 
the  edge  of  the  forest  are  made  by  birds,  the  ear 
grows  aweary  longing  for  the  note  of  a mocker,  cat- 
bird, bob-o-link,  meadow-lark,  wood-thrush  or  veery, 
those  sweet  singers  of  our  own  blessed  land. 

One  bird  voice  I heard  on  this  trip  relieved  the 
monotony  even  though  it  lacked  melody.  A dark 
bird,  having  the  body  of  a big  duck  and  legs  like  a 
heron,  a long,  supple,  black  neck,  and  a short  beak, 
stalked  the  side  of  the  swamp  one  evening,  now  and 
again  plunging  its  bill  into  the  pools  which  had  settled 
at  the  base  of  small  trees.  Without  other  provoca- 
tion for  all  I could  see  than  the  prompting  of  a wind- 


54 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


filled  body,  it  would  at  intervals  inflate  this  long, 
black  neck  until  it  appeared  to  be  on  the  verge  of 
bursting — then  opening  its  bill  a little  squeak 
came  forth,  so  tremulous,  so  surprisingly  weak, 
as  to  be  absurdly  inadequate.  Considering  the  size  of 
the  bird  and  the  labour  of  production,  one  had  a right 
to  expect  at  least  a squawk.  I never  saw  it  but  the 
once. 

On  one  side  of  the  lagoon  appeared  a kind  of 
campo,  but  on  the  other  sides  were  a swamp  and 
palms,  and  behind  stretched  the  dark  forest.  Skirt- 
ing it  we  plunged  into  the  swamp  to  reach  the  timber, 
carrying  our  camp  outfit  easily,  for  it  was  limited 
to  dried  fish,  mandioca,  a hammock  and  a cuia  each. 
This  is  the  usual  equipment  where  such  wilderness 
adventuring  is  attempted,  for  the  way  is  devious  and 
trap  filled,  and  multitudinous  thorned  and  noosed 
things  reach  forth  to  stay  your  progress,  if,  indeed, 
they  do  not  throw  you  full  length.  There  is  other 
trek  food  more  palatable,  but  none  yielding  equal  sub- 
stance for  its  bulk.  You  can  easily  carry  enough 
dried  fish  to  last  you  ten  days,  and  the  ways  of  serv- 
ing it  are  many.  As  for  mandioca — it  is  unrivalled 
for  such  travel.  It  tastes  like  a bran  mash,  to  be  sure, 
but  it  keeps  you  going,  and  its  preparation  is  utterly 
simple.  When  hunger  assails,  you  have  merely  to 
put  a handful  of  the  mandioca  in  your  cuia,  fill  full 
of  water,  drain  according  to  taste,  or  according  to 
how  much  of  drink  you  desire  with  your  solid,  and 
your  meal  is  ready.  Food  and  drink  in  one,  in  fact. 

Before  we  had  gone  one  hundred  feet  we  fell 
into  the  enemies’  hands.  However  free  of  such  pests 
the  black  water  of  the  Negro,  the  exemption  is  not 


THE  UBA  USED  ON  MY  INLAND  TRIPS  OFF  THE  RIO  NEGRO 


CROSSING  A SWAMP 


56 


extended  to  the  lagoons  and  swamps  and  igarapees 
of  the  back  country.  We  got  the  real  thing  on  this 
occasion;  nearly  as  real  as  I afterwards  found  it  on 
the  upper  Orinoco,  but  of  greatly  inferior  quality 
to  the  breed  of  the  Casiquiare  River,  where  each  and 
every  individual  insect  holds  out  a welcoming  pro- 
boscis. Though  it  took  quite  a long  step  ahead  with 
this  experience,  my  insect  education  was  after  all  but 
in  its  swaddling  clothes.  My  first  line  of  defence 
was  a big  bandanna  handkerchief  fastened  about  my 
head  and  under  my  chin  with  the  idea  of  protecting 
my  neck,  but  when  it  successfully  resisted  being 
dragged  oflf  by  the  brush  we  worked  through,  it 
served  as  a protected  harbour  for  the  bug  brigade  that 
marched  in  at  the  open  sides  with  colours  fiying  and 
bands  playing. 

Having  mastered  my  first  lesson,  I tied  the  ban- 
danna around  my  neck,  put  my  trousers  inside  my 
socks  under  canvas  leggings,  closely  fastened  my 
wristbands  to  head  off  too  intimate  exploration 
by  the  invaders,  and  yielded  my  face  to  the  fiying 
hosts.  And  they  made  the  most  of  the  opportunity, 
for  I was  fresh  to  this  environment,  and  tender 
(comparatively).  On  the  morning  following,  my 
neck  and  face  were  so  swollen  that  I looked  out 
through  a pair  of  slits.  Yeggo’s  face  was  normal,  but 
his  legs,  bare  to  the  knees,  and  his  body,  exposed 
through  the  many  holes  of  his  shirt,  showed  the  wear 
and  tear  of  the  attack.  The  only  joyful  feature  of 
our  swamp  trip  was  the  final  disappearance  of  that 
tantalizing  hat  of  Yeggo’s,  which  he  wouldn’t  leave 
in  the  canoe  as  I had  mine.  Of  course,  it  was  im- 
possible to  keep  it  on  his  head  as  we  squirmed  through 


56 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


the  thick  cover,  using  hands  as  well  as  feet,  and  after 
repeated  failure  he  fastened  it  to  his  pack.  In  a 
piece  of  going  where  we  floundered  through  over  our 
knees  in  muck,  a stout  reed  snatched  the  hat  loose, 
springing  erect  to  dangle  it  aloft  in  triumph  as  if  it 
were  the  scalp  lock  of  a vanquished  foe.  Yeggo  was 
too  much  occupied  ploughing  passage  to  be  aware  of 
his  loss.  I saw  it,  however — and  silently  breathed 
a sigh  of  relief.  Poor  Yeggo  mourned  the  hat  for 
days  and  would  not  be  comforted  even  though  I 
gave  him  the  wherewithal  to  equip  himself  with  the 
most  fantastic  headgear  the  stock  of  the  next  trader 
he  met  could  furnish. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  swamp,  we  came  to  a 
small  river  flowing  between  forested  banks  in  the 
direction  of  the  Negro,  although  we  had  not  passed 
it  in  our  inland  journey.  Here  we  camped  for  a 
couple  of  days  while  I stalked  the  neighbourhood  for 
new  sights  and  Yeggo  spent  much  of  his  time  under 
a nearby  palm,  which  bore  in  clusters  a round, 
purplish  berry  the  size  of  a big  cherry,  having  a large 
stone  covered  with  a pungent,  pulpy  flesh,  that  he 
seemed  to  relish,  although  they  so  puckered  my 
mouth  I decided  them  to  be  unripe.  With  its  slender 
trunk  and  twenty  feet  of  height  the  palm  resembled 
what  had  been  pointed  out  to  me  lower  on  the  river 
as  the  assahy,  the  berries  of  which  afford  a native 
drink. 

This  first  camp  site  was  unhappily  located  in 
the  course  of  an  ant  line  of  march,  which  made  its 
appearance  shortly  after  daylight,  as  we  were  pre- 
paring breakfast — forthwith  postponed  as  we  beat 
a hasty  retreat,  gathering  our  modest  equipment  for 


THE  TROUBLESOME  ANT 


57 


rearrangement  at  a nearby  spot  outside  the  ant  zone. 
I have  read,  in  books  of  tourist  manufacture,  that  you 
should  permit  the  ants  to  continue  their  march  across 
you — that  they  are  “ going  somewhere,”  and  “ if  un- 
molested will  pass  on.”  All  of  which  reads  well  to  the 
man  in  town — also  as  if  the  authors  were  lacking  ex- 
perience with  certain  South  American  species  of  the 
genus  ant.  By  the  time  the  busy  and  inquiring  scouts 
have  finished  their  foraging,  you  are  unlikely  to  sit 
inert  while  the  remainder  of  the  army  toils  over 
you,  especially  when  they  are,  as  I have  known  them 
to  be,  several  hours  in  passing.  There  are  few  insects, 
indeed,  in  the  jungles,  more  troublesome  to  the  ad- 
venturer than  the  ants,  which  are  in  numbers  un- 
countable from  the  big  sauba  with  its  dome-shaped 
ground  house,  to  those  with  houses  in  the  trees,  and 
other  winged  ones,  apparently  homeless  and  con- 
stantly on  the  move.  Of  all  ants,  however,  the  arch 
demon  is  a black  monster  an  inch  or  more  in  length, 
which  bites  as  hard  as  any  wasp  stings,  and  seems 
to  deposit  a poison,  for  the  effects  of  its  assaults 
stayed  with  me  longer  than  those  of  any  other  insect 
in  the  country,  and  one  of  the  most  miserably  un- 
comfortable quarter  hours  I ever  had  in  the  jungle 
was  an  encounter  with  a line  of  these  ants,  which  fell 
upon  me  once  as  I slept  on  the  Orinoco  River. 

Luck  favoured  me  better  in  the  new  site  we  chose 
aside  from  the  invader’s  line  of  advance.  I had  wished 
closer  acquaintance  with  the  rodents,  of  which  there 
are  many  representatives,  and  an  entire  day  of 
stealthy  hunting  nearby  furnished  me  with  several 
examples,  including  the  paca.  The  smaller  members 
of  this  large  tribe  have  heads  and  bodies  somewhat  re- 


58 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


sembling  those  of  the  weasel,  and  the  larger  are 
patterned  after  the  woodchuck,  including  the  largest, 
the  capybara,  which  in  the  water  looks  like  a big 
beaver.  It  is  a stupid,  semi-aquatic  creature  often 
seen  in  alluvial  country,  is  easily  killed  and  furnishes 
neither  sport  nor  palatable  meat.  The  agouti,  accord- 
ing to  my  taste,  is  the  only  one  worth  eating,  and 
frequents  the  dank  places  less  than  the  others.  I 
have  seen  it  oftenest,  in  fact,  on  the  campos  near  the 
forest,  sitting  up  eating  like  a squirrel  and  looking 
like  a clipped-eared  rabbit. 

Stopping  at  an  isolated  pool  to  examine  a fuchsia- 
like flower  which  clung  to  a bush  at  the  side,  on  my 
way  back  to  camp  after  a day  of  exploration,  my  eye, 
always  alert  at  such  crocodile  shelters,  fell  upon  a 
lizard,  fuU  one  foot  and  a half  long,  posed  on  the  bank 
opposite.  Instantly  I “ froze,”  returning  the  concen- 
trated gaze  with  which  I was  regarded.  At  first  sight 
of  the  reptile,  memory  jumped  me  to  Arizona  wander- 
ings and  the  Gila  monster,  which  it  resembled  near 
enough  to  be  a foster  brother,  having,  in  fact,  the  same 
dark  skin  as  the  latter,  and  a similar  decoration  of 
light  spots  and  lines.  But  for  its  tail,  which  was  very 
long,  a casual  glance  might  easily  mistake  it  for  our 
one  poisonous  North  American  lizard. 

Have  you  ever,  in  your  woodland  rambles,  tested 
the  duration  and  the  steadfastness  of  the  gaze  of  a 
creature  which,  either  from  fright  attending  upon 
surprise,  or  from  curiosity  unfraid,  has  stayed  its 
flight  to  inspect  you?  How  intent  and  how  abso- 
lutely motionless  it  is!  This  lizard  when  discovered 
had  its  head  raised  at  an  acute  and  decidedly  uneasy 
angle,  yet  there  it  remained  without  a quiver,  with- 


ACTIVITY  OF  SNAKES  AND  LIZARDS  59 


out  a breath  movement;  it  might  have  been  fashioned 
from  bronze  for  all  the  sign  it  gave.  Probably  at 
least  five  minutes  elapsed  (a  heron  and  I once  thus 
motionlessly  stared  at  each  other  for  ten  minutes) 
before  I slowly,  as  slowly  as  I could,  began  to  draw 
my  gun  up  from  the  ground  where  it  rested  butt 
down.  I thought  my  action  so  slow  as  to  be  un- 
detected, but  with  a flash  of  black  the  lizard  had 
darted  out  of  sight  into  the  jungle  before  I could  get 
even  a hip  shot.  It  was  very  likely  a tegu. 

The  rapidity  with  which  big  lizards,  even  those  so 
big  as  the  apparently  clumsy  iguana,  and  large  snakes, 
get  out  of  view  is  another  lesson  the  jungle  holds  for 
most  of  us.  I shall  always  remember  my  one  and  only 
meeting  with  the  bushmaster,  that  most  dreaded  of 
tropical  America  snakes.  It  was  in  a damp,  open, 
wood  growth,  where  I had  been  searching  for  jaguar 
tracks,  that  I came  upon  the  snake,  suddenly,  un- 
expectedly. At  the  first  swift  glance  I thought  it, 
because  of  the  marking,  a six  foot  timber  rattler. 
Realizing  in  the  second  flash  of  intelligence  where  I 
was,  I knew  that  the  reptile  must  be  the  repulsive 
thing  which  is  accounted  the  largest  and  most  danger- 
ous of  New  World  venomous  snakes.  And  while 
I gathered  myself  to  fire — it  was  gone.  Had  van- 
ished as  though  only  a foot  long  and  no  bigger  than 
my  finger.  If  it  could  go  from  me  so  quickly,  how 
swift  need  the  shooting  be,  I pondered  (as  I stood 
staring  into  the  brush  where  it  had  disappeared) 
should  it  another  time  take  the  notion  to  come  towards 
me? 

Before  I was  out  of  my  hammock  next  morning, 
Yeggo,  trembling  with  obvious  emotion,  stood  at  my 


60 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


head  pointing  a vibrant  finger  towards  the  water. 

Stealing  from  tree  to  bush,  from  bush  to  tree,  for 
about  seventy  yards,  I discerned,  on  the  bank  in  the 
early  daylight,  a full  grown  tapir  cropping  the  lush 
grass  by  help  of  its  prehensile  lip,  all  unconscious  of 
our  nearby  presence.  ’Twas  the  best  view  I ever  had 
of  this  seeming  cross  between  the  ’rhino  and  hog,  an 
ungainly  animal  of  the  jungle  with  pig  eyes  set 
half  way  down  to  the  mouth.  It  isn’t  ugly  enough  to 
be  picturesque,  like  the  wart  hog  or  the  ’rhino,  or  the 
spine  armoured  iguana  of  South  America;  it’s  just 
plain  stupid  looking.  If  there  is  any  choice  between 
them,  the  Brazilian  is  perhaps  an  improvement  on  the 
Malayan,  because  its  head  has  more  modelling,  greater 
depth,  and  comes  sharper  off  at  the  mouth,  with  a 
shorter,  more  snout-like  nose.  The  Malayan  is 
heavier,  with  longer  prehensile  lip  and  is  lightish  gray 
from  shoulders  to  rump,  otherwise  it  is  a dirty  black 
like  the  Brazilian.  Both  are  extremely  shy,  haunting 
the  rivers,  in  which  they  spend  as  much  time  as  on 
land,  and  vigorous  swimmers. 

As  I squatted  watching  the  awkward  beast, 
Yeggo  disappeared,  only  to  return  shortly  and 
proffer  me  the  rifle  which  I had  left,  having  no 
thought  to  kill  so  unsporting  a creature.  As  I gave 
no  indication  of  shooting  after  accepting  the  gun 
from  his  hands,  my  Indian  factotum  entered  upon 
an  energetic  and  appealing  sign  talk  with  such  earn- 
estness that  a hand  struck  the  brush — and  away  went 
the  tapir.  Yeggo  was  the  most  disgusted  Indian 
I ever  beheld.  For  a few  hours  the  loss  of  the  tapir 
overshadowed  even  the  loss  of  his  hat,  and  neither 
agouti  nor  a rail-like  bird  with  which  our  larder  was 


DISAPPOINTMENTS  IN  PHOTOGRAPHY  61 


supplied,  kept  him  from  sorrowing  throughout  our 
morning  meal.  The  Indians  hereabouts  appear  to 
greatly  fancy  the  meat,  and  every  tapir  killed  is 
signal  for  feasting,  which,  quite  Indian-like,  usually 
continues  until  the  animal  is  devoured.  Sometimes 
where  luck  favours  the  hunter  so  that  more  than  one 
tapir  is  secured,  the  meat  is  smoked  to  cure  it  for 
keeping,  but  as  a rule  the  flesh  is  roasted  and  eaten 
forthwith,  for  one  tapir  at  a time  is  regarded  as  a 
find.  When  killed  in  the  water  it  is  said  the  tapir 
sinks  like  the  ’hippo,  to  rise  after  an  hour  or  two, 
but  I can  give  no  first  hand  information  on  the  sub- 
ject, those  I killed  both  in  INIalaya  and  South  America 
being  on  land  at  the  moment  of  shooting. 

Setting  our  faces  toward  the  Negro,  we  spent 
that  night  near  the  swamp  we  had  crossed  two  days 
before,  and  I killed  a bat  with  a body  within  a shade 
of  seven  inches  in  length.  Of  small  bats,  there  were, 
in  fact,  almost  as  many  as  of  the  ever  chorusing  frogs. 
Heavens,  what  throats  those  South  American  frogs 
must  have ! All  night  long  the  clamour  continues  with- 
out ceasing  and  %vithout  rivalry.  No  birds  call  at 
night,  except  occasionally  a heron  may  croak  dis- 
mally. Even  fireflies,  I was  surprised  to  note,  keep 
themselves  under  cover,  though  perhaps  they  await 
the  dry  season. 

Regaining  our  canoe  at  the  lagoon,  I spent 
another  couple  of  hours  with  the  birds  in  a vain 
attempt  in  the  drizzle  and  lowering  clouds  to  get 
some  photographs;  but  every  exposure  proved  a 
blank.  To  be  unable  to  utilize  photographically  such 
opportunities  was  disappointing  to  say  the  least,  es- 
pecially at  this  place,  where  the  variety  of  birds 


62 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


seemed  unusual  to  me — wading,  swimming,  arboreal — 
all  within  calling  distance  of  one  another! 

Going  back  to  the  river,  we  kept  closely  to  the 
igarapee,  moving  swiftly  along  with  the  overhanging 
foliage  reflected  but  vaguely  under  the  leaden  sky. 
At  the  submerged  forest  I yielded  to  the  temptation 
to  linger  amid  its  strange  beauty  and  manifold  rep- 
tilian life.  To  hear  a sudden  plunk  here,  or  an  un- 
expected splash  there,  according  to  the  size  of  the 
startled  creature,  or  to  detect  a pair  of  bright  eyes 
furtively  sentineling  you  is  not  without  its  thrills  in 
this  shadowed  loneliness. 

Here  we  saw,  too,  the  only  snake  of  this  trip,  a 
richly  coloured  water  boa  of  nine  and  a half  feet, 
whose  head  I shattered  with  buckshot  as  it  lay  partly 
coiled  on  the  low  limb  of  a tree.  Such  waters  are 
infested  with  these  boas,  which  may  grow  to  eighteen 
or  twenty  feet,  it  is  said  (a  trader  once  showed  me  a 
skin  twenty-seven  feet  long),  but  this  was  the  only 
one  recorded  in  my  notebook  on  the  Negro,  or  on  the 
number  of  inland  trips  therefrom.  In  fact,  the 
motive  of  this  identical  inland  trip  was  to  see  the  “ big 
snakes,”  which  everyone,  including  my  batelao  men, 
told  me  I should  encounter.  Incidentally  I may  say, 
I have  seen  more  snakes  (rattlesnakes)  in  north- 
western Texas  or  southeastern  New  Mexico  during 
a single  trip  than  ever  I saw  in  all  my  tropical 
travels  in  South  America  and  the  Far  East  com- 
bined. Let  me  add  that  on  land  this  boa  is  the  con- 
strictor, feeding  mostly  on  the  peccaries  and  the 
various  rat  tribe,  and  does  not  reach  such  length  as 
its  aquatic  relative,  the  anaconda. 

Winding  our  way  through  the  forest,  we  again 


THE  FREAK  MATA  MATA  TURTLE 


63 


emerged  upon  the  igarapee,  with  its  contractions  and 
expansions,  pushing  along  with  only  an  occasional 
brief  stop  to  inspect  some  strange  plant  or  creature 
which  may  have  caught  my  eye. 

At  one  such  time,  when  I had  stopped  to  closely 
survey  a six-inch  tree  twisted  like  a corkscrew,  I 
saw  that  strange,  aquatic,  well  named  snake-bird 
(properly  called  anhinga)  with  its  long,  slim  neck 
and  serpentine-like  head,  which  feeds  upon  fish 
caught  under  water. 

Again,  after  we  had  passed  the  cleft-like  water- 
way through  the  forest  wall  and  had  come  near  to 
the  river,  where,  as  I paddled  round  and  round  an 
unusually  alluring  orchid  which  invited  to  efforts  of 
capture,  I spied  a dainty,  reddish  back  jacana  speed- 
ing lightly  across  the  water,  over  the  floating  plants. 
And  soon  after  I secured  a young  mata  mata, 
that  freak  member  of  the  turtle  family,  with  its  snake 
neck,  ridged  shell,  and  flat,  broad  head  ending  in 
elongated  snout  between  tiny  eyes.  Seeing  the  head 
and  neck  alone,  you’d  never  in  a thousand  years 
guess  it  belonged  to  a turtle.  These  turtles  are  rare 
and  I congratulated  myself  on  my  find,  a young  one 
about  eight  inches  long  (they  grow  to  three  feet) 
and  planned  taking  it  to  my  friend  Dr.  Charles  H. 
Townsend,  for  his  most  popular  museum  of  all 
America,  viz.  the  New  York  Aquarium.  Sad  to  tell,  I 
lost  it  subsequently  on  one  of  my  numerous  upsets 
in  the  uba. 

In  another  hour  we  were  again  on  the  river,  and 
in  half  a night  and  a long  day’s  paddling  caught  up 
with  the  batelao. 


66 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


Wallace,  I note,  estimates  the  higher  two  of  these 
peaks — the  isolated  one  and  that  on  the  east  end  of  the 
ridge — as  being  three  thousand  feet.  This  appears 
rather  too  high  to  me,  although  my  calculation  was 
merely  one  of  comparison  with  the  rock  peak  at  Cocui, 
on  the  Brazilian  frontier,  which  is  known  to  be  about 
one  thousand  feet.  As  between  the  estimates  of 
that  distinguished  scientist  and  mine,  there  can  be 
no  hesitation  by  the  reader;  I merely  cite  what 
I find  recorded  on  the  ground  in  my  notebook. 
Abrupt  rock  peaks  rising  out  of  the  dead  level 
country,  loom  large  to  the  voyager  who  has  been 
passing  through  the  flat  land  of  the  Road,  and 
perhaps  I estimated  too  low  in  fear  of  being  be- 
trayed by  the  sudden  (and  welcome)  contrast  into 
making  figures  too  high.  Still,  with  all  due  respect, 
I should  like  to  see  that  dome  measured. 

Some  of  our  universities  ought  to  send  a scientific 
expedition  up  the  Negro  and  to  Duida  on  the 
Orinoco;  there  is  plenty  to  give  to  the  world  in  the 
way  of  exploration  and  of  authoritative  description. 

Sweeping  the  base  of  these  solemn  sentinels  as  it 
turns,  the  river  is  headed  due  north  by  the  time  it 
reaches  Camanaos,  twenty  to  twenty-five  miles  be- 
yond San  Jose  and  the  real  beginning  of  the  bad 
rapids.  Picture  to  yourself  a mill-race,  sometimes 
more,  sometimes  less  than  a mile  in  width,  and  fifty 
miles  long,  sprinlded  with  upstanding  boulders, 
crossed  by  ledges  of  rock,  and  divided  by  occasional 
islands,  with  cataracts  and  whirlpools  and  patches  of 
comparatively  unbroken,  though  always  racing 
water.  That  is  the  Rio  Negro  from  Camanaos  to 
Garrapana,  where  another  group  of  three  conical 


THE  RIO  NEGRO  TURNS  NORTH 


67 


peaks  on  the  west  bank  marks  the  final  effort  of  this 
long  series  of  eataraets  before  the  river  calms  and 
broadens  to  a width  of  three  miles. 

Standing  on  the  ruins  of  the  old  Spanish  fort  on 
the  bluff  above  Forteleza,  a bird’s-eye  view,  beginning 
at  the  north  of  this  seventy  miles  of  the  Negro  from 


soorr. 


1500  fT 


• 60orr 

g /N0/CATE5  CATARACTS 


AUTHOB*8  APPROXIMATE  SKETCH  MAP  OF  THE  SO-CALLED  FALLS  OF  THE  BIO  NEGRO 

San  Jose  to  Camanaos,  18  to  20  miles,  required  3 days  ; Camanaos  to  San  Gabriel,  25  to 
SO  miles,  required  5 days ; San  Gabriel  to  Forteleza,  9 miles,  required  2 days  ; Forteleza  to 
Garrapana,  11  miles,  required  2 days  ; 65  to  70  miles  and  12  days  of  almost  continuous  hauling. 
Bad  rapids  begin  at  Camanaos.  A small  island  at  San  Gabriel  divides  the  Negro  into  two 
racing,  seething  channels. 

Garrapana  to  San  Jose,  reveals  a sudden  narrowing 
of  the  river  from  three  miles  to  one  mile  at  Garra- 
pana, followed  by  an  immediate  expansion,  which  con- 
tinues until  Forteleza.  Here  again  it  shrinks  to  begin 
forty  miles  of  cataracts  to  Camanaos,  where  starts 
the  big  bend  to  the  east  which  ends  at  San  Jose.  At 
the  north  and  south  ends  of  this  flight  of  cataracts,  a 


68 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


group  of  three  conical  peaks  rise  from  the  otherwise 
unbroken  land  surface;  and  beyond  these  again 
another  small  group — all  on  the  right  bank — out- 
posts, so  to  say,  to  the  flanking  sentinels  of  this  land 
strait,  which  closely  resembles  that  other  famous  land 
strait  in  Venezuela  between  Maipures  and  Atures. 
Though  emphasized  at  San  Gabriel  and  at  JVIaipures, 
such  outcroppings  are  a geological  characteristic  of 
this  division  of  the  flowing  road  from  Santa  Isabel 
on  the  Negro  to  Atures  on  the  Orinoco,  where  they 
end.  Dr.  Hamilton  Rice  discovered  similar  rock  out- 
croppings on  the  upper  waters  of  the  Uaupes,  dur- 
ing his  thorough  and  distinctly  notable  exploration 
of  that  river. 

The  day  following  our  soaking  at  the  Cababuri 
was  a scorcher  and  as  we  stuck  midstream  on  a rock 
all  the  afternoon,  the  mishap  afforded  excellent  and 
welcome  opportunity  to  sun  our  outfit  in  the  98°  tem- 
perature. Another  day  and  night  of  toilsome  prog- 
ress brought  us  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  our  journey  to 
San  Jose,  of  which  the  only  recollections  lingering 
with  me  are  a big  yellow  butterfly  that  came  aboard, 
with  blue  moons  at  the  centre  edge  of  its  wings,  and 
a hang-nest  oriole  (japim)  plaintively  calling  so 
much  like  a lost  chick  as  to  entirely  deceive  me.  Three 
days  more  brought  us  to  Camanaos,  with  its  three 
palm-adobe  houses  and  as  many  families,  whom  we 
had  planned  to  have  help  us  around  the  rapids  but 
whose  interest  in  our  belongings  appeared  so  absorb- 
ing we  scarce  could  get  their  attention  long  enough  to 
even  make  a proposal  of  work.  We  sought  to  buy 
fresh  fish  but  they  had  none ; with  a river  full  of  fish 
they  were  eating  mandioca  and  dried  fish  and  no  bet- 


NATIVE  STIMULANTS 


69 


ter  oIF  in  supplies  than  we.  In  fact,  they  were  not  so 
well  off,  as  I found  to  my  dismay  after  they  had  dis- 
covered my  canister  of  sugar;  and  I simply  had  to 
stand  guard  over  my  demijohn  of  cachaca,  though 
here  I was  aided  by  my  Indians,  whose  interest  in  pro- 
tecting this  and  the  tobacco  with  which  I rewarded 
their  greater  efforts,  was  not  unselfish.  They  well 
knew  that  the  fewer  demands  on  these  stores  the  more 
would  be  coming  to  them;  and  the  cachaca  was 
getting  low. 

Ordinarily  I disbelieve  in  stimulants  on  a journey 
of  sustained,  tiring  effort,  but  along  this  division  of 
the  Road  in  the  rainy  season,  the  continuous  soaking 
to  which  the  men  were  subjected,  eating  in  the  rain, 
sleeping  in  the  rain  and  directly  on  the  water  where 
a morning  miasma  hung  so  thick  you  could  not  see 
fifty  feet,  not  to  mention  the  depression  following 
upon  days  of  wearisome  struggle  in  sodden  surround- 
ings, under  an  ever  recurring  downpour— all  this,  I 
say,  persuaded  me  to  employ  a small  amount  of  the 
native  rum  as  a preventive  against  fever  and  a 
counter-irritant  to  mental  and  physical  conditions 
generally.  I merely  regard  its  moderate  use  as 
medicinal  and  protective. 

Every  people  of  the  wilderness  or  the  near 
wilderness  have  their  fermented  drinks,  rather 
raw  stuff,  which  in  South  America  may  be  brewed 
from  bananas,  palm-nuts,  pineapples,  even  from 
mandioca.  Of  such  class  is  cachaca.  Whether  it  is 
efficacious  as  a fever  safeguard  I cannot  declare.  I 
can  only  say  my  crews  made  better  time  and  seemed 
in  better  condition  than  other  canoes  of  Indians  we 
met ; but  there  is  no  doubt  whatever  of  its  inspirative 


70 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


service  and  of  its  use  as  a persuader  to  endeavour. 
Many  a time  we  should  have  stuck  or  lost  hours  but 
for  the  hope  of  that  small  horn  of  rum  promised  at 
the  close  of  a hard,  long  day.  And  when  cachaca 
failed  of  its  persuasive  powers,  there  remained 
tobacco — better  than  money — and  in  barter  coveted 
beyond  all  else  except  sugar,  which  is  so  scarce  as  to  be 
a luxury  eagerly  sought  and  seldom  secured. 

It  is  reckoned  twenty-five  to  thirty  miles  from 
Camanaos  to  San  Gabriel,  and  we  were  five  days 
covering  the  distance,  from  three  in  the  morning  until 
long  after  night.  Most  of  the  hours  of  those  days 
it  rained,  and  on  two  nights  thunder  and  lightning 
visited  us  with  vivid  flashes  and  thunderous  crashes 
which  boomed  and  reverberated  and  roared  and 
cracked  until  my  ears  rang.  You  must  experience 
a tropical  storm  at  its  full  to  realize  what  an  up- 
roar thunder  can  make  when  it  is  real  earnest. 

At  Camanaos  and  all  the  other  major  rapids 
throughout  this  much  broken  course,  everything  had 
to  be  taken  out  of  the  batelao  and  packed  along  shore 
on  our  backs,  while  the  boat  was  dragged  up  and 
through  the  cataracts  and  over  and  around  the  rocks, 
until  the  worst  was  passed.  Then  we  loaded  up, 
hauled  another  short  piece,  encountered  more  cata- 
racts, partly  unloaded,  again  dragged  the  batelao 
across  the  rock  dikes,  and  once  more  went  on  our  way, 
to  shortly  repeat  the  laborious  performance.  Such 
was  the  manner  of  our  progress  during  those  five 
days.  Perhaps  for  brief  spaces  in  some  clear,  little 
bay  we  could  work  along  the  bank  with  the  poles ; for 
still  shorter  distances,  maybe  a stretch  of  back  water 
or  “ remanse  ” enabled  us  to  use  the  oars;  but  quickly 
there  would  come  again  the  swift  water,  the  projecting 


HAULING  THE  BATELAO  OVER  THE  ROCK  AT  THE  EDGE  OF  CAMANAOS  RAPIDS 


WORKING  THROUGH  THE  ROCKS 


71 


boulders  and  the  cataracts  with  another  period  of 
heavy  surging  on  the  rope  by  all  hands. 

Sometimes  we  came  to  a series  of  great,  bare 
rock  islands  divided  by  narrow  streams  of  boiling 
water,  and  impossible  of  passage  because  of  the 
menacing,  jagged  tops.  Here  hauling  on  the  cable 
fastened  ahead  by  the  uba  crew,  we  worked  our  slow 
way  from  rock  island  to  rock  island  until  we  passed 
outside  the  last  obstruction,  sometimes  considerably 
beyond  midstream;  then  by  the  same  process  we 
worked  along  the  up-river  side  of  the  barriers  back  to 
the  north  bank  again.  It  was  excessively  arduous, 
slow  and  hazardous  progression,  for  as  we  worked  out 
the  rapid  water  swung  us  around,  often  tearing  us 
loose  from  our  grip  and  hurling  us  back  against  the 
rocks.  At  such  times  every  device  of  locomotion  was 
employed.  One-half  the  crew  hauled  on  the  cable, 
part  of  the  other  half  used  the  poles  with  the  numer- 
ous rocks  for  purchase,  and,  where  the  water  shoaled, 
the  rest  jumped  out  to  push  and  heave. 

Frequently  we  advanced  by  hauling  along  the 
rocks  under  the  bank.  Sometimes  the  men  tracked 
the  batelao  through  the  swirling  water,  scrambling 
from  rock  to  rock,  but  most  often  we  moved  onward 
hauling  from  one  boulder  to  another  by  the  cable. 
Stretched  on  the  deck,  every  man  of  us  with  feet 
braced  against  the  gunwale,  we  pulled  at  a given 
signal — pulled — pulled — the  rope  being  securely  fas- 
tened as  it  came  in  literally  inch  by  inch.  That  was 
the  process.  At  times  we  hung  straining  for  minutes, 
our  advance  scarcely  perceptible  to  the  eye;  and  at 
times,  indeed,  we  lost  ground  by  the  slipping  of  the 
rope.  Round  some  of  the  difficult  rapids  we  tracked 
with  a line  at  bow  and  stern. 


72 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


Too  frequently  the  batelao  got  away  from  us. 
On  the  second  day  the  piassava  three-inch  cable  broke 
and  the  boat  set  olF  on  a mad  career,  soon  checked, 
however,  by  jamming  among  the  rocks  and  seething 
water  with  a smashed  tiller.  Often,  while  being 
carried  ahead,  the  submerged  cable  became  entangled 
on  the  bottom  among  the  rocks,  and  on  such 
occasions  it  was  most  interesting  to  watch  the 
diving  and  under  water  work  of  the  Indians  while 
they  attempted  to  free  it.  All  these  Rio  Negro 
Indians  appear  to  be  equally  at  home  in  the  water  as 
on  land,  but  one  of  my  crew,  with  a negro  cast  of 
countenance,  was  well  nigh  amphibious.  He  would 
remain  under  for  two  minutes  at  a stretch,  working 
to  loose  the  cable  and  long  after  the  others  had  come 
to  the  surface  for  air. 

From  the  half  information  I gained  through  a 
limited  communication  with  my  men,  I had  fancied 
San  Gabriel  the  end  of  our  troubles,  but  when  we 
finally  arrived,  I found  them  only  a little  more  than 
half  over,  as  we  still  had  another  three  days  getting 
the  batelao  over  the  major  cataracts  Cocui  and  the 
Forteleza  at  the  other  end  of  the  neck  of  land  upon 
which  San  Gabriel  is  situated;  three  days  of  almost 
unbroken  rope-hauling,  with  intervals  of  heavy  rains 
and  a blistering  sun  that  sent  the  mercury  up  to  100° 
in  the  shade.  Even  with  the  cargo  out,  it  took  all  day 
to  get  the  batelao  around  Cocui.  But  what  a feast 
those  Indians  had  when  the  boat  at  last  rested  beyond 
the  Forteleza,  after  the  twelve  days’  toil  from  San 
Jose!  And  as  the  disembarked  cargo  lay  upon  the 
rocks,  the  rain  gave  that  dried  pirarucu  another  sous- 
ing, to  add  to  its  already  well  developed  odour! 


CHAPTER  V 


ANCIENT  SAN  GABRIEL  AND  ITS 
FOREST  DESERT 

The  children  of  a cheerful  fancy  are  the  inspira- 
tion of  a long  trail ; often  too  they  lead  to  a disillusion 
which  appears  tragic  enough  at  the  moment  of 
unveiling,  but  actually  adds  an  enlivening  element  to 
adventuring  in  the  great,  silent  places.  Until  you 
cross  the  frontier  to  pass  beyond  the  area  of  support- 
ing columns  and  cached  supplies,  your  progress 
towards  the  border  land  is  very  apt  to  be  a series 
of  scrambles  from  post  to  post  of  outfit.  You  leave 
one  to  struggle  on  to  the  next,  which  forthwith  be- 
comes a goal  of  plenty  and  of  ease  to  beckon  weary 
muscles  and  soothe  rebellious  stomachs.  You  may 
know  full  well  that  the  creature  comforts  in  the  ofRng 
comprise  nothing  more  luxurious  than  a crudely  con- 
structed bedstead  or  an  armchair  of  clumsy,  home- 
make  perhaps,  yet  day  by  day  as  you  cut  down  the 
intervening  distance,  the  true  traveller  sense  of  you 
optimistically  pictures  those  homely  furnishings  till 
they  become  things  of  artistic  modelling  and  volupt- 
uous ease;  while  the  anticipated  dish  of  baked  beans 
stands  unrivalled  this  side  of  Boston.  Viewed  from  the 
lower  end  of  a swift  running  river  the  least  settlement 
above  transforms  to  metropolitan  completeness;  the 
lowliest  interior  into  all  the  comforts  of  home. 

Ah  those  rose-tinted  visional  camps  of  to-morrow, 
how  they  lighten  the  journey! 

From  my  first  day  aboard  the  crawling  batelao. 


73 


74 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


always  San  Gabriel  had  loomed  splendid  and  inviting 
upon  the  mental  horizon  as  a harbour  where  rest  and 
bounty  awaited  us  after  a month’s  up-river  toil.  In 
reality  we  found  it  a port  of  destitution,  unequalled 
for  sheer  physical  beauty  elsewhere  on  the  Rio  Negro, 
but  with  scarce  enough  in  the  larder  to  sustain  life 
among  its  handful  of  hopeless  denizens.  Except 
from  Corcovado,  the  three  thousand  foot  mountain 
guard  of  Rio  Janeiro,  I have  had  few  more  entrancing 
views,  indeed,  than  from  atop  the  ruined  walls  of 
the  old  fort  here,  now  crumbling  beyond  repair  on 
a knoll  which  for  miles  commands  the  river  both 
ways.  To  the  west,  the  rapids  whirl  and  roar  directly 
below  you;  on  your  right  and  left  at  the  north  and 
south  ends,  respectively,  of  the  maddened  water,  rise 
those  isolated  conical  peaks  to  which  I have  made 
repeated  reference;  beyond  and  pn  every  side,  ex- 
tending as  far  as  eye  can  reach,  runs  the  dark  line 
of  the  forest,  unbroken,  unrelieved, — appalling  in  its 
immensity  and  gloom. 

Should  San  Gabriel,  in  progressive  ages  to  come, 
ever  develop  into  a city,  the  great  foundation  blocks 
of  that  relic  of  a long  forgotten  life,  which  was  both 
enterprising  and  sanguinary,  will  be  displaced  for  the 
cornerstone  of  a world  famous  hotel. 

One  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  San  Gabriel 
(founded  in  1753)  was  filled  with  consequence  and 
bustle  as  became  the  most  important  rally  and  trade 
station  on  Portugal’s  New  World  frontier;  to-day,  it 
has  only  the  tradition  of  its  past  and  twelve  more  or 
less  ramshackle  houses,  of  which  but  three  were 
occupied  at  the  time  of  my  sojourn.  On  the  ground 
next  highest  to  that  covered  by  the  decaying  fort. 


1% 

■m. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  SENTINELS  ON  THE  BIG  BAY 


MY  PERSONAL  CAMP  ALONGSIDE  THE  RAPIDS  AT  SAN  GABRIEL 


A MONGREL  TYPE 


75 


stands  the  church.  Its  walls  for  the  greater  part  are 
bare  of  mortar  covering;  the  once  ornate  mural 
decoration  is  almost  obliterated,  and  outside  on  a 
nearby  scaffold,  four  bells  of  varied  size  show  years 
of  neglect  in  their  grime.  A path  over  great,  flat, 
sunken  boulders  bearing  rough  hewn  steps,  leads  to 
the  houses  far  below;  and  alongside,  tottering  posts 
tilting  a carved  iron  lantern  arm,  indicate  where  once 
were  artistic  sense  and  a lighted  way. 

But  its  light  has  quite  gone  out  now,  and  with  it, 
alas,  seem  also  to  have  departed,  ambition, — even 
common  industry  from  the  desolate  stragglers ! 
When  hunger  presses  they  catch  fish;  the  remainder 
of  their  time  is  passed  in  the  hammock,  where  they 
sway  and  smoke  and  gossip.  Nor  is  this  propensity 
peculiar  to  San  Gabriel;  in  truth,  it  is  fairly  repre- 
sentative of  native  disposition  on  most  of  the  Rio 
N egro. 

iThe  posts  which  thrived  in  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries  when  the  Portuguese  and  Span- 
iards traded  actively,  have  all  but  passed  away  along 
the  flowing  road  in  Brazil  and  Venezuela.  The 
Indians  have  receded  farther  and  farther  from  the 
highway,  and  in  their  place  we  find  the  mixture  of 
Portuguese  and  Indian,  Portuguese  and  Negro, 
Indian  and  Negro— a mongrel,  who  is  active  neither 
to  the  advantage  of  his  fellows  nor  the  development 
of  the  country.  He  raises  practically  nothing;  not 
even  mandioca,  his  staff  of  life,  except  here  and 
there ; scarcely  any  fruit,  and  strangest  of  all,  only  an 
occasional  cocoanut,  that  manna  of  tropical  lands 
which  here  would  of  course  flourish  widely.  Even  the 
country  tobacco,  of  which  all  smoke  much  in  cigarette 


76 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


form — rolled  in  the  inner  bark  of  a kind  of  birch  tree 
— is  grown  sparsely.  Wherever  industrial  conscience 
awakens,  rubber  is  the  incentive;  for  the  rest,  life  is 
literally  a from  hand  to  mouth  existence  endured 
without  shame  and  closed  prematurely. 

All  over  the  world  to  kick  another  man’s  dog  is 
to  invite  a fight  with  its  owner.  Not  so  with  the 
Ilio  Negro  degenerate — he  merely  laughs;  you  may 
kick  his  dog  as  much  as  you  please  if  you  are  that 
odious  kind  of  human  brute. 

My  heart  sank  as  the  impoverishment  of  San 
Gabriel  and  the  nature  of  its  derelict  householders 
unfolded  before  me;  for  the  chances  of  securing  an 
uba  and  a crew  for  the  pursuit  of  my  journey  were 
anything  but  encouraging.  As  soon  as  it  became 
known  the  stranger  had  cachaca  the  male  contents 
of  the  three  houses  so  promptly  gathered  about  where 
I camped  in  the  open  on  the  rocks,  I was  led  to  think 
for  a moment  that  perhaps,  after  all,  my  task  would 
not  be  so  difficult.  But  I was  soon  undeceived;  their 
interest  lay  in  the  rum,  as  they  evinced  speedily. 

Now  the  truth  is  that  I had  had  trouble  all  along 
to  save  my  cachaca  from  the  Indians;  not  that  I be- 
grudged them  the  small  cheer  they  might  derive  from 
it,  but  simply  because  my  supply  was  limited,  while 
the  journey  was  long,  and  I wanted  its  stimulating  in- 
fluence distributed  throughout  the  route  rather  than 
used  up  as  a joy-maker  for  one  section.  Hitherto, 
my  difficulties  had  been  confined  largely  to  my  own 
crew;  here  with  all  my  belongings  brought  from  the 
batelao  and  perching  in  full  view  on  the  rocks,  I had 
to  withstand  local  importunities  as  well  as  those  of 
my  erstwhile  boatmen  now  grown  almost  insolent  in 


QUALITIES  OF  LEADERSHIP 


77 


their  demands.  It  really  became  quite  a serious  little 
situation  for  a period;  and  as  well  for  the  continuance 
of  my  leadership  as  for  the  advance  of  my  expedition 
a showdown  was  necessary  and  made  that  there  might 
be  no  doubt  of  my  determination  to  protect  my  pro- 
visions and  dispense  my  favours  as  I choose. 

Nothing  is  so  fatal  to  success  in  vdlderness  ad- 
venturing as  loss  of  mastership.  The  traveller  who 
permits  himself  to  be  “ bamboozled  ” or  his  outfit 
rifled,  loses  hold  upon  his  men  and  lays  the  founda- 
tion for  future  trouble  of  a continuous  and  increasing 
.character.  Whether  he  be  hunting  or  exploring  or 
border-land  travelling,  the  lone  white  man  must 
maintain  unquestioning  native  belief  in  his  author- 
ity— and  fairness;  for  the  latter  attribute  is  equally 
essential.  It  means  there  will  be  occasions  when 
he  must  act  promptl}^  sometimes  severely — though 
never  cruelly,  of  course.  He  must  punish  theft 
without  delay;  he  must  checkmate  underhand  ma- 
noeuvres ; he  must  tolerate  no  familiarity  that  suggests 
equality.  He  must,  in  a word,  be  the  boss,  a just  boss 
whose  reward  is  as  swift  as  his  punishment.  And  un- 
less he  is  so  qualified,  the  adventurer  will  be  wise  to 
turn  round  and  beat  a safe  retreat  while  he  may. 
Once  control  is  lost,  riot  results  and  a solitary  man  in 
such  a plight  in  the  vnlderness  has  about  as  much 
chance  as  a snowball  in  that  place  of  traditional  heat 
and  untimely  repentance. 

Having  decided  I was  not  to  be  “ bulldozed  ” 
my  visitors  sulked  in  groups  around  me,  but  after 
a time  I warmed  them  up  a bit  with  a little  sugar, 
and  when  eventually  a more  friendly  atmosphere  had 
been  established,  sought  to  interest  them  in  my  trip. 


78 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


No  volunteers  were  forthcoming,  however,  until  I 
announced  that  a small  horn  of  cachaca  every  night, 
as  long  as  it  lasted,  went  with  the  job,  in  addition 
to  a reward  of  tobacco  at  the  end  of  the  journey 
for  those  that  merited  it.  On  this  basis  eight  men 
olFered  their  services,  but  none  of  them  had  a canoe, 
nor  would  any  of  the  others  trade  me  an  uba  for 
the  liberal  portions  of  rice  or  pirarucu  I was  willing 
to  give. 

With  the  labour  field  at  hand  exhausted,  the 
necessity  of  extending  my  search  became  manifest, 
and  incidentally  developed  a rather  perplexing  situa- 
tion. I could  not  of  course  leave  my  belongings 
unguarded  while  I went  looking  for  a canoe,  as  thus 
to  forsake  them,  meant  not  to  find  them  on  my  re- 
turn; and  squatting  over  my  stuff  on  the  rock  was 
not  likely  to  get  me  very  far  on  my  journey.  So 
I made  the  outfit  into  packs  and  sallied  forth  on  my 
mission  laden  like  unto  an  itinerant  street  peddler 
of  Rio.  On  my  back  were  the  remaining  rice  and 
dried  fish;  over  one  shoulder  balanced  the  sugar  and 
coffee  canisters  and  the  caehaca  demijohn,  while  from 
the  other  hung  camera  and  the  two  water-proof 
canvas  bags  in  which  I carried  tobacco  and  note- 
books ; in  hand,  of  course,  was  my  rifle.  I must  have 
made  an  amusing  figure  of  a peripatetic  recruiting 
sergeant,  as  it  were.  At  any  rate  I found  what  I 
sought  under  an  open  shed-like  rain  shelter,  in  shape 
of  a forlorn  round  faced  little  man,  who  said  he  knew 
where,  up-river,  he  could  get  me  an  uba,  but  it  would 
take  three  to  five  days  to  fetch  it,  meanwhile,  I could 
make  the  inland  excursion  I planned.  And  so  it  was 
arranged. 


WE  RECEIVE  CONGRATULATIONS  AFTER  HAVING  GOT  THE  BATELAO  ACROSS  THE  LAST  RAPIDS 


THE  AWESOME  EQUATORIAL  FOREST  79 

Unless  you  had  seen  the  demonstration  however, 
you  would  not  believe  that  one’s  departure  after 
so  brief  an  acquaintance  could  arouse  such  deep 
emotion  as  surged  under  that  crude  shelter  in  the 
next  hour  while  I endeavoured  to  engage  two  other 
men  for  my  inland  trip — extra  men  being  necessary 
to  carry  the  demijohn  and  other  unneeded  things 
which  I felt  I could  not  leave  in  safety  at  San 
Gabriel.  The  fervid  assurances,  reiterated  and  in- 
dorsed over  and  again  by  the  assembled  company, 
of  the  safe-guarding  of  my  effects,  including  the 
cachaca,  during  my  absence,  would  have  moved  a 
wooden  Buddha  to  compliance.  I’m  ashamed  to  have 
been  so  obdurate,  but  being  a firm  disciple  of  the 
ounce  of  prevention  doctrine,  I finally  secured  two 
boys  to  go  along.  Incidentally  I had  to  keep  an  eye 
on  the  demijohn  boy  all  the  days  we  spent  in  the 
forest;  his  popularity  with  the  others  of  the  party 
was  instant  and  alarming.  After  all,  I’m  not  so 
sure  that  the  bother  attendant  upon  carrying  cachaca 
does  not  very  nearly  counter-balance  the  magic  of 
its  presence  in  opening  ways  and  providing  means 
of  travel!  However,  we  at  last  got  started  for  the 
forest,  each  of  us  carrying  a pack  swung  on  fore- 
head or  shoulder  bands,  the  Indians  making  their 
harness  of  vines  and  tough,  pliable  inner  bark. 

How  awesome  is  the  deep  equatorial  forest  in  its 
immensity,  and  how  disappointing!  It  is  not  at  all 
the  picture  of  your  untutored  imagination — brilliant 
in  flaming  foliage  and  gay  with  the  chatter  of  wild 
life.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  sombre  and  forbidding 
and  silent.  Here  is  no  frog  chorus,  or  hum  of  insect, 
or  hoarse  croaking  bird;  even  the  harassing  voice 


80 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


of  the  parrot  is  stilled.  ’Tis  a vast  desert  where  you 
may  not  venture  without  compass,  for  neither  land- 
marks nor  the  stars  attend  you;  there  is  only  the 
canopy  of  the  trees  above  and  the  tangle  of  under- 
growth below  and  around.  Where  indeed  is  there 
a desert  to  equal  the  forest  desert!  But  the  trees 
are  wonderfully  impressive  with  their  huge,  smooth 
trunks  from  four  to  six  feet  in  diameter,  limbless 
for  forty  to  sixty  feet.  Some  are  supported  by 
buttresses  which  stand  out  at  their  base  three  or  four 
feet,  like  great  flanges,  and  all  share  their  burden 
of  the  marvellous  parasitic  life  which  may  express 
itself  in  flower-like  decorations,  or  in  festooning,  en- 
twining, pendent  vines,  innumerable  in  quantity,  and 
of  every  character  and  many  dimensions. 

Of  course  there  is  life  in  the  deep  forest,  plenty 
of  it,  but  it  is  sly  and  noiseless,  in  keeping  with  the 
huge  solitude  it  calls  home.  You  find  here  the  many 
varieties  of  rodent  family;  the  sly  tapir;  the  clumsy 
appearing  but  surprisingly  active  ant-eater;  a wild 
dog — a greyish  coyote-like  animal  with  a dog  tail — of 
which  I shot  one;  several  of  the  cats,  though  they 
(including  jaguar — head  of  the  family)  keep  closer 
to  the  jungle  edges  or  near  the  breaks  in  the  forest 
where  birds  and  streams  and  peccaries  are  more  fre- 
quent and  the  hunting  is  better  and  the  quarry  an 
improvement  on  the  rodents. 

At  such  an  opening  where  we  camped  one  night 
after  five  days  in  the  forest,  I heard  a curious  drumming 
or  booming,  not  at  all  unlike  that  made  by  the  grouse, 
only  of  much  less  volume,  and  Gregorio,  my  best 
man,  whom  I signalled  inquiringly,  stalked  it  with 
me.  From  behind  a bush  I had  a plain  view  of  a 


A BOOMING  GROUSE-LIKE  BIRD 


81 


dark  bird  about  the  size  of  a pheasant,  standing  some 
fifty  feet  away,  booming  without  opening  its  bill  or 
moving  its  wings.  On  its  neck  appeared  loose  skin, 
which  might  have  played  a part  in  the  booming,  though 
I could  not  see  any  inflation  as  the  bird  strutted  in  life. 
We  found  it  good  eating.  Gregorio,  by  the  way,  took 
more  interest  in  the  wild  life  and  had  more  knowl- 
edge of  it  than  any  of  the  Indians  I met  on  the 
river.  Another  of  the  travellers’  surprises  being  the 
small  knowledge  these  people  appear  to  have  of 
the  life  to  which  they  live  so  near.  He  was  a queer 
chap,  Gregorio,  but  cheerful,  and  often  indulged  in 
song.  One  night  at  a camp  we  made  at  base  of  a 
beautiful  stem-fluted  fern,  he  broke  out  in  one  which 
for  intoning  and  rhythm  sounded  oriental.  Out  of 
sight  you  would  have  sworn  a Japanese  had  suddenly 
turned  up  in  the  woods  and  was  rejoicing  thereat. 

We  had  some  dry  hours,  but  not  many,  for  the 
reputation  of  San  Gabriel  as  being  the  rainiest  section 
on  the  Negro  was  fully  sustained.  In  these  hours  of 
relief  most  of  our  bird  killing  was  done,  and  among 
others  brought  down,  was  one  brown  about  the  size 
of  a grouse,  with  red  on  its  head,  and  tiny  white 
spots  on  its  wings.  In  temper  it  resembled  our 
northern  “ fool  hen  ” grouse,  usually  making  a short, 
low  flight  to  roost  in  full  view.  None  of  the  hand- 
some, metallic  trogans  common  to  this  neighbourhood 
crossed  our  path,  and  only  one  recluse  toucan  did 
we  spy,  which  was  not  surprising.  Indeed,  we  con- 
sidered ourselves  very  lucky  in  seeing  as  many.  The 
often  published,  full  catalogues  of  beasts  and  birds 
which  the  casual  traveller  seems  to  have  seen  simply 
in  passing  along,  usually  in  launch  or  canoe,  are 


82 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


always  a source  of  envious  wonderment  to  me.  I 
have  had  no  such  good  fortune,  and  yet  have  counted 
myself  rather  lucky  in  seeing  so  much  of  wild  life. 
One  must  be  lucky  indeed,  or  the  wild  life  teeming  to 
see  many  of  the  varieties  merely  in  passing.  My  less 
spectacular  and  evidently  less  profitable  method  has 
been  to  sit  quietly  waiting,  hour  after  hour,  for  what 
chanced  to  come,  moving  from  section  to  section  in  my 
observation. 

Returning  to  the  river  we  had  a small  adventure 
with  a herd  of  peccaries,  which  have  more  courage 
to  the  square  inch  than  all  the  cat  family  combined; 
and  Gregorio  was  well  scratched  getting  one  of  the 
smaller  of  the  ant-eaters  * out  of  a tree  to  which  it 
clung  by  its  sharp  curving  claws.  In  fact,  our  menu 
on  this  trip  was  varied  and  excellent,  for  in  addition 
to  the  birds,  not  to  mention  pigs  and  rats,  we  came 
across  several  berry  bearing  palms,  one  particularly 
good-looking  specimen  carrying  an  apricot-like 
yellowish  fruit  in  great  bunches,  which  Gregorio 
said  tasted  like  banana,  but  which  we  did  not  stop 
to  gather,  being  on  the  last  leg  of  our  return — rain 
soaked  and  leg  weary. 

* Not  including  tail,  this  ant-eater  is  approximately  one 
and  a half  to  two  feet  in  length — which  is  about  half  that 
of  the  great  ant-eater.  It  is  also  yellowish  with  black  lateral 
band,  and  arboreal,  whereas  the  large  species  is  greyish  and 
black,  and  frequents  swampy  ground. 


CHAPTER  VI 
BY  UBA  TO  THE  FRONTIER 

My  round  face  little  man  proved  to  be  as  good 
as  his  word,  and  the  promised  uba  lay  high  on  the 
bank  two  days  before  our  return  on  April  16.  The 
question  of  crew  remained  unanswered,  however. 
When  I left  for  the  forest,  seven  men,  including  a 
patron,  had  agreed  to  accompany  me,  but  when  after 
another  day  or  so  of  dilly-dallying  I decided  to  start, 
two  were  all  I could  muster  in  addition  to  Gregorio, 
which  gave  us  a total  of  four  paddles,  including  mine 
— rather  few  for  the  strength  of  current  and  the 
length  of  canoe  we  had  to  drive  against  it. 

Though  we  left  at  Forteleza  the  last  of  the  bad 
rapids,  yet  for  several  days  we  encountered  cataracts 
formidable  enough  to  necessitate  emptying  the  canoe 
in  passage.  Nor  was  it  the  rough  water  which  gave 
the  greatest  tussle,  but  the  smooth,  strong  flow  above 
just  before  it  broke  upon  the  rocks.  Always  the  water 
was  swift.  Every  bend,  every  clump  of  projecting 
trees,  every  up-standing  or  jutting  rock,  of  which 
there  were  many,  set  up  its  whirlpool  to  increase  our 
task  in  a river  that  already  was  speeding  at  the  rate 
of  seven  miles  the  hour.  At  places  we’d  haul  the 
uba  unsteadily  among  a sea  of  rocks;  again  drag  it 
bodily  over  ledges  of  bare  granite ; at  night  it  would 
pound  against  the  smooth  boulder  we  invariably  chose 
for  rest,  if  we  were  so  fortunate  as  to  find  one,  because 
of  the  comparative  immunity  afforded  from  insects. 

From  the  Garrapana  rapids  (the  uppermost  of 


83 


84 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


the  long  series  which  ends  at  Camanaos)  throughout 
the  thirteen  days  it  took  us  to  cover  the  about  four 
hundred  miles  to  Pimichin  at  the  southern  gateway 
to  fabled  El  Dorado,  with  changes  of  fresh  men 
at  the  two  trading  posts  ( San  Marcellinos  and 
San  Carlos),  we  travelled  hard  from  before  day- 
light to  long  after  dark,  at  times  until  midnight. 
This  was  partly  during  the  moon’s  last  quarter  and 
the  scene  at  three  in  the  morning  when  we  started 
was  one  of  weird  beauty  which  always  fascinated 
me;  the  soft  half-light  with  its  shifting  outlines, 
the  nodding  limbs  in  the  current,  the  dark 
bays  with  their  lurking  shadows,  the  looming  points 
with  their  fantastic  images,  the  swaying  canoe  as 
we  put  on  steam  to  round  a bend  of  swift  water.  I 
fear  I did  not  do  my  share  with  the  paddle  under 
the  magic  influence  of  the  “ madrugar,”  as  the 
Indians  call  this  hour.  The  first  streaks  of  dawn 
came  about  five,  and  in  half  an  hour  the  sun  was  up, 
if  it  was  coming  at  all  that  day.  Often,  however,  a 
heavy  mist  hung  over  the  trees,  hiding  everything 
from  view  beyond  a hundred  yards,  and  then  the 
day  opened  slowly,  silently,  seemingly  sullen  and 
ashamed.  Its  close  was  no  less  unlovely.  As  the 
very  short  dusk  set  in  the  bats  took  up  their  faltering 
flight,  the  clanging  frog  chorus  tuned  up,  and  a blue 
haze  like  the  sluggard  smoke  of  a campfire,  settled 
below  the  tree  tops. 

Few  birds  showed  along  this  division  of  the  road, 
although  wherever  the  forest  opened,  especially  be- 
hind the  boulder  camps,  they  announced  themselves 
noisily,  as  if  to  prove  that  opportunity,  rather  than 


INFREQUENT,  SHIFTING  MEAL  HOURS  85 


life  was  lacking.  None-the-less  my  note-book  records 
always  a scarcity  of  birds  at  or  near  rapids. 

Except  at  the  mouth  of  the  Uaupes  or  Caiary,  as 
it  is  variously  called — which  Alfred  Wallace  first 
ascended  in  1851  and  Dr.  Hamilton  Rice  descended 
from  its  source  in  1909,  thus  adding  much  to  our 
knowledge  of  this  strange  region — we  tarried  little  by 
the  wayside  even  for  food,  making  no  pretence  to  have 
more  than  one  cooked  meal  during  the  twenty-four 
hours  and  that  at  noon.  At  night,  when  we  tied  up 
it  would  be  to  a boulder  where  wood  was  lacking,  or,  if 
there  happened  to  be  wood,  also  there  was  rain.  In 
the  morning  we  made  no  fire  for  the  same  reason.  The 
“ noon  ” meal  was  eaten  any  hour  between  ten  in  the 
morning  and  three  in  the  afternoon,  according  to  how 
the  rain  came,  or  more  correctly  speaking,  according  to 
when  it  stopped  and  where  we  found  ourselves.  The 
distance  we  made  was  a long  way  short  the  ratio  of 
work,  but  after  the  crawling  batelao,  the  uba  was  a 
Twentieth  Century  Limited. 

Following  the  bends  added  tremendously  to  the 
distance  we  travelled,  but  eased  the  paddling,  which 
was  hard  in  the  extreme.  Gregorio  spoke  truly  when 
he  tried  to  comfort  me  in  my  disappointment  at 
Forteleza,  by  saying  the  crew  was  capable,  even 
though  small.  They  kept  steadily  at  the  exacting 
work  without  a murmur,  unless  I except  Miguel,  the 
patron,  who  was  constantly  mumbling,  and  relieving 
himself  now  and  again  of  yawns  so  prodigious  it 
seemed  they  must  rack  his  system  to  its  keelson. 
You’d  think  he  was  about  to  yield  the  ghost,  but  it 
was  only  his  day  habit,  which  by  night  took  form  of 
loud  and  repeated  groaning  as  he  slept  soundly.  He 


86 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


was  willing  enough,  but  not  a good  steersman,  and 
several  times  got  us  into  trouble,  from  wliich  he  should 
have  kept  clear. 

The  pride  of  the  canoe  was  Ato,  a Venezuelan 
Indian  of  negro  blood,  who  towered  over  the  other 
members  of  the  crew,  although  he  probably  did  not 
exceed  five  feet  ten  inches  in  height.  His  eyes  were 
closely  set,  his  teeth  file  pointed,  he  had  a pronounced 
negro  nose  and  the  white-spot  scars  of  the  country 
skin  disease  covered  his  hands,  feet  and  legs.  The 
chief  article  of  his  costume  was  a sleeveless  tunic,  held 
at  the  waist  by  a very  fanciful  bead  and  leather  belt; 
but  his  pride  was  a much  bedecorated  brown  plush 
sombrero,  for  which  he  said  he  had  given  a month’s 
hard  work.  He  was  no  Adonis,  but  had  a powerful 
stroke  and  set  a good  pace. 

There  is  none  of  the  poetic,  silent  stealth  of 
novelists  and  tradition  in  the  South  American 
Indian’s  up-stream  paddling.  The  ordinary  stroke, 
to  which  a pronounced  beat  is  given  by  striking  the 
gunwale  with  the  paddle  handle  just  before  taking 
water  with  the  blade,  is  about  thirty  to  the  minute, 
though  I have  counted  eighty  and  over  in  brief  spurts 
to  get  beyond  swirling  cataract  water.  The  most 
serviceable  stroke  on  a long  stretch  is  really 
two  strokes,  a short  easy  one,  followed  by  a hard 
longer  one,  the  first  keeping  way  on  the  canoe. 
This  stroke  the  crew  will  maintain  at  about  thirty 
to  the  minute,  increasing  or  decreasing  at  command 
of  the  bowman,  who  raises  his  paddle  as  a preliminary 
to  speeding,  and  at  the  end  of  the  spurt  throws  the 
water  high  in  the  air  from  his  blade  as  signal  to  slow 
down.  During  the  hitting  up,  the  uba  rocks 


THE  ENDURING  UBA 


87 


like  a row  boat  in  a cross  sea,  and  the  water  on  the 
keel  sloshes  over  everything  within  reach.  Oftentimes 
after  such  a spurt  all  the  crew  take  up  the  bowman’s 
signal  in  a playful  spirit  of  rivalry  as  to  who  can  throw 
the  most  water  highest.  This  is  great  fun  for  the 
men,  but  it  soaks  every  uncovered  thing  in  the  for- 
ward end  of  the  toldo.  Usually  a period  of  loafing 
follows  a burst  of  this  kind,  during  which  half  of  the 
men  eat  and  banter  the  others  who  keep  the  uba 
headed  up.  It  always  amused  me  mildly  to  see  Ato 
set  Miguel’s  ration  of  mandioca  afloat  in  a cuia  which 
the  current  carried  back  to  the  expectant  patron  at 
the  stern.  Once  an  eddy  deflecting  its  course,  Miguel 
went  overboard  after  it,  partly  wrecking  the  toldo 
and  very  nearly  upsetting  the  canoe  among  some 
rocks,  where  it  rammed  and  jammed  until  it  seemed 
as  if  it  must  be  split  from  stem  to  stern. 

No  craft  but  a very  heavy  dugout  like  the  uba 
could  endure  such  usage,  and  ours  being  typical  of 
the  river,  is  entitled  to  description.  It  was  thirty 
feet  long  on  a two  foot  and  a half  beam  at  its  widest, 
with  both  ends  tapering  slowly.  The  floor  grating 
is  made  of  inch  wide  lengths  of  split  bamboo  laid 
about  an  inch  apart  lengthwise  on  cross  pieces  six 
inches  or  so  above  the  keel,  which  always  carries 
about  three  inches  of  water,  bailed  out  periodically 
when  it  exceeds  that  depth.  At  the  floor  the  uba 
was  two  feet  wide  with  six  inches  from  floor  to  gun- 
wale inside,  and  two  or  three  inches  outside  freeboard 
according  to  loading — all  of  which  conveys  an  idea  of 
how  ill-equipped  we  were  for  rough  going. 

The  toldo  is  a barrel-shaped  house  made  by  lash- 
ing, over  hoops  of  cane,  a kind  of  native  matting 


88 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


which  when  new  sheds  rain  that  does  not  continue  too 
long.  They  are  set  up  in  the  stem  end  and  vary  in 
size.  Mine  was  eight  feet  long,  about  two  feet 
and  a half  high  from  the  canoe  floor  at  the  entrance, 
and  a foot  lower  at  the  back.  Of  this  I occupied 
about  four  feet,  the  remainder  being  taken  up  by 
the  mandioca  and  other  supplies,  directly  in  front 
of  which  my  personal  outfit  was  arranged  as  much 
as  possible  to  provide  something  for  me  to  lie  back 
against.  It  is  impossible  to  sit  upright,  even  in 
the  front  end,  so  mostly  you  must  recline  with  drawn 
knees.  When  you  can  no  longer  endure  several 
varieties  of  this  cramped  position  you  stretch  forth 
your  bare  feet  into  the  burning  sun  or  the  rain,  as 
the  case  may  be. 

Even  as  I write,  so  long  after,  I am  amused  at 
recollection  of  the  inside  of  my  toldo,  and  perhaps 
it  may  interest  you.  Needless  to  say,  in  such  quarters, 
what  one  uses  daily  should  be  at  hand ; and  there  must 
be  no  butter  fingers,  for  anything  like  a pencil,  match- 
box, pipe,  knife,  slipping  from  your  grasp  goes 
into  the  water  on  the  keel,  which  in  addition  to 
penalizing  careless  fingers,  is  a harbor  for  insects. 
Articles  must  be  stowed  intelligently  and  in  the 
smallest  possible  compass,  for  you  can  not  be  moving 
round  much  in  a cranky  boat  having  less  than  three 
inches  of  freeboard.  Of  course  you  are  barefooted, 
as  you  have  frequently  to  go  overboard  and  help  the 
canoe  among  the  rocks ; also  because  you  cannot  move 
about  in  the  uba  with  shoes.  You  need  all  the  care 
and  ease  of  motion  you  can  command;  no  sudden 
movements  over  that  crank  keel.  Inside  the  toldo  you 
navigate  on  hands  and  knees ; outside  it  is  the  work  of 


THE  NATIVE  DUGOUT  CANOES  OF  THE  RIO  NEGRO 


THE  UBA  IN  WHICH  I JOURNEYED 


THE  ANCIENT  PORT  OF  SAN  GABRIEL 


THE  RESTRICTED  TOLDO 


89 


a gymnast.  To  those  who  have  grown  prideful  of 
toilet  making  triumphs  in  the  sleeping-car  upper 
berth,  I recommend,  as  an  entertaining  experience, 
dressing  inside  a toldo  of  this  size. 

Whatever  you  require  must  be  within  reach. 
Midway  up  the  toldo,  inside  under  the  hoops  support- 
ing the  matting,  was  the  favourite  repository  of  the 
men  for  their  tobacco,  and  bark  cigarette  papers. 
And  here  also  I kept  my  towel,  shoes  and  socks 
(which  I wore  only  when  we  stopped  as  protection 
against  the  insects)  and  soap  and  comb,  each  on  a 
string.  Field  glasses  and  gun  were  lashed  along  the 
top;  at  my  left  were  belt,  with  knife  and  revolver, 
watch,  thermometer,  aneroid — all  tied  to  the  toldo 
ribs.  At  my  right,  on  the  floor  was  the  camera  case, 
a small  gripsack  and  the  water-proof  canvas  bag 
containing  films  and  note-books,  which  I kept 
always  where  I could  grab  them  to  safety  with- 
out delay  when  the  canoe  careened.  At  the  left 
on  the  floor  were  my  Preston  kit,  comprising  canteen, 
fry  pan,  cup,  fork,  spoon  and  tooth  brush,  and  a 
cuia  in  which  I kept  pipe,  tobacco  in  immediate 
use,  and  matches.  All  these  hanging  things  were 
fastened  so  as  not  to  swing  before  my  eyes,  other- 
wise when  the  canoe  rocked  I should  have  had  the 
D.  T’s.  Directly  back  of  my  head  were  other  water- 
proof canvas  bags  containing  emergency  medicines, 
reserve  tobacco  and  matches;  and  near  the  centre, 
overhead,  were  the  invaluable  filter  and  the  collapsible 
canvas  bucket. 

What  a junk  shop  it  appeared!  Lying  on  my 
back  surveying  this  motley  array,  only  the  three 
balls  seemed  missing  to  complete  the  picture.  I used 


90 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


a single  blanket  folded  lengthwise  between  water- 
proof eanvas,  all  rolled  up  during  the  day,  both  for 
cleanliness  and  convenience.  When  it  rained  I pulled 
up  the  canvas,  spread  a poncho  over  the  camera  at 
the  side  and  baggage  behind,  and  sat  like  a brooding 
hen  trying  to  keep  things  dry.  It  was  a constant  and 
ineffectual  struggle.  JMost  of  the  storms  drove  down- 
river and  protection  against  the  rain  was  next  to  im- 
possible; we  were  literally  soaked  for  by  far  the 
greater  portion  of  the  time. 

Among  the  diversions  afforded  by  the  toldo  was 
the  catching  of  large  spiders,  which  appeared  to 
flourish  despite  my  daily  assault.  I wondered  where 
they  came  from  in  such  abundance,  and  concluded 
they  must  be  swept  aboard  from  the  over-hanging 
trees  of  the  banks;  yet  I never  actually  saw  the  in- 
vasion, as  very  well  I might,  since  the  biggest  I killed 
covered  a space  about  the  size  of  my  palm,  and  was 
by  no  means  shy,  indeed,  he  undertook  to  dispute 
possession  of  the  toldo  with  me. 

’Twas  not  a joyful  place,  that  toldo,  with  its  heat 
and  smells,  and  I used  it  only  at  night,  and  not 
then,  if  the  men  were  sleeping  ashore. 

There  were  many  islands  in  this  stretch  of  the 
river,  though  of  smaller  area  than  those  seen 
below  San  Gabriel,  and  once  in  a while  we  passed 
an  open  place  on  the  bank  that  made  an  agreeable 
break  in  the  otherwise  unchanging  dark  sky  line.  On 
one  memorable  day,  too,  we  came  to  a collection  of 
four  Indian  skacks,  which  seemed  as  an  oasis  in  a 
forest  desert,  but  proved  so  in  appearance  only,  for 
the  Indians  had  nothing  in  the  food  line  to  trade, 
having  come  to  the  river  to  fish.  Throughout  this 


THE  HELPFUL  REMANSE 


91 


section  the  scattered  Indians  live  in  small  companies 
and  almost  invariably  on  or  very  close  to  the  rivers, 
because  these  latter  offer  opportunities  for  occasional 
employment,  and  yield  them  fish,  turtles,  and  water- 
fowl.  The  great  woodland  wildernesses  are  not  food 
producers,  and  there  is  almost  no  overland  travel; 
the  Indians  following  the  windings  of  the  rivers  in 
their  process  of  establishing  temporary  or  permanent 
settlement,  as  weU  as  in  search  for  food. 

In  this  particular  part  of  the  river  we  found 
other  attractions  also,  frequently  coming  to  a “ re- 
manse ” as  it  is  called — a helpful  phenomenon  which 
reverses  the  current  for  a short  distance  close  in  to  the 
bank.  I have  seen  some  queer  remanse  freaks.  Once 
I remember  a double-barrelled  example:  i.e. — a re- 
manse flowing  up-stream  on  both  sides  the  main 
current  which  was  readily  distinguished  by  quantities 
of  white  spume  on  its  surface.  Invariably,  when  we 
encountered  such  a life-saving  station,  the  Indians 
stopped  paddling  and  fell  to  eating,  and  though  my 
anxiety  to  get  forward  made  any  delay  harassing 
to  a distressful  degree,  I never  interfered  with  their 
habit.  You  must  not  expect  to  make  over  the  people 
you  encounter  in  the  borderland.  They  have  their 
established  manner  of  doing  things  and  you  must 
have  the  patience  to  fall  in  with  it,  and  the  spirit  and 
experience  to  seek  out  the  best  of  things  as  they 
happen,  and  make  it  serve  you,  otherwise  you  fret 
yourself  to  incapability — and  get  nowhere. 

Our  habit  of  pushing  on  another  hour  or  two 
when  conditions  happened  to  warrant  adding  to  our 
day’s  mileage,  often  led  us  to  some  rather  poor  camps. 
The  night  we  should  have  spent  on  the  high,  dry 


92 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


ground  of  the  abandoned  old  fort  San  Felipe,  for 
instance,  we  camped  some  distance  beyond  on  the 
edge  of  a swamp-like  campo,  where  the  piums  nearly 
devoured  us,  but  where,  by  way  of  recompense,  I 
climbed  to  the  view  of  a very  beautifully  coloured 
orchid  relative. 

Another  experience  I had  a night  or  two 
later  was  equally  diverting.  Fifty  yards  from 
where  we  landed  we  discovered  three  travelling 
Indians  bivouacked,  and  made  coffee  to  lend  a festal 
air  to  the  occasion,  my  crew  appearing  to  enjoy 
hugely  the  meeting  and  its  flow  of  gossip,  which 
lasted  late.  After  we  had  retired  I heard  voices, 
obviously  lowered  and  expectant.  Turning  out  I dis- 
covered Ato  to  be  the  only  one  at  hand,  and  the  demi- 
john missing.  Quietly  stealing  towards  the  talking 
I found  Miguel  and  Leea  and  the  three  Indians  sit- 
ting around  a small  fire,  chattering  in  subdued  tones ; 
gesturing,  laughing,  evidently  warming  up  for  the 
anticipated  good  time.  Approaching  just  as  Leea 
was  passing  a cuia  I seized  and  emptied  it  of  the 
cachaca,  and  then  taking  the  demijohn,  ordered  my 
men  back  to  camp.  The  Indians  moved  as  though 
to  regain  possession  of  the  precious  demijohn,  but 
covering  them  with  my  revolver,  I herded  Leea  and 
Miguel  sulkily  away,  when  backing  into  the  dark,  I 
sought  a new  camping  spot  for  myself  and  the  demi- 
john, quite  apart  from  the  others.  To  this,  by  way 
of  safeguarding  against  vengeful  impulse,  I fetched 
also  all  the  paddles  of  my  uba.  Soon  a very  heavy 
storm  broke  upon  us,  which  no  doubt  cooled  feverish 
tendencies,  for  when  I roused  my  crew  before  dawn 
the  revellers  went  to  their  work  without  hesitation. 


A GENTLEMAN  TRADER 


93 


They  said  nothing,  nor  did  I.  I did  not  see  the  other 
Indians,  but  thereafter  I slept  near  the  demijohn. 

The  next  afternoon  in  crossing  from  one  side  to 
the  other  of  the  river,  as  some  boulder  filled,  rapid 
water  obliged  us  to  do,  and  paddling  our  fastest,  we 
struck  a rock  which  Miguel  should  have  avoided. 
The  uba  keeled  over,  half  filling,  and  we  all  went 
overboard  of  course,  but  escaped  with  nothing  worse 
than  a thorough  wetting  and  the  loss  of  some  pirarucu 
and  tobacco.  The  day  following  (the  fifth  since  leav- 
ing Forteleza)  we  got  a three  o’clock  start,  and  at 
nine  at  night  came  to  San  Marcellinos. 

Reaching  San  Marcellinos  was  like  getting  money 
from  home.  Not  that  it  was  any  wonder  to^vn,  con- 
sisting as  it  did  of  just  one  house;  but  because  of 
its  hospitality  and  gentle  courtesy,  for  that  one  house 
was  the  home  of  Miguel  Pecil,  a trader  with  an  eye  to 
business,  but  the  manners  of  a gentleman.  He  took 
me  in,  administering  to  my  physical  needs,  and  what 
was  of  more  consequence  undertook  to  facilitate  my 
journey  to  San  Carlos,  where  he  prophesied  I should 
be  able  to  replenish  my  depleted  provisions  and  with- 
out difficulty  secure  canoe  and  men  for  the  trip  across 
the  isthmus  of  Javita  on  to  San  Fernando  de 
Atabapo,  where  I hoped  to  outfit  for  a venture  into 
the  upper  Orinoco  and  the  unknown  region  beyond 
Esmeralda.  How  little  he  knew  San  Carlos  as  I was 
destined  to  find  it!  How  little  indeed  these  widely 
separated  settlements  seem  to  know  of  one  another! 
Like  tiny  oases ' in  the  desert  of  uncompromising 
forest,  each  must  be,  and  is,  independent  of  the  other ; 
there  is  no  intercourse  and  no  communication  except 
that  brought  by  the  occasional  trading  boat. 


94 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


In  addition  to  letting  me  have  a few  supplies  in 
trade,  Pecil  helped  me  to  get  three  new  men,  one  to 
replace  Leea,  who  had  been  stricken  with  fever,  so 
that  we  were  able  to  get  away  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
day  after  our  arrival.  Together  with  the  steersman 
I had  now  a crew  of  five,  which,  including  mine, 
meant  five  paddles,  so  we  set  out  to  make  a record  run 
to  San  Carlos,  after  first  exchanging  the  uba  for  a 
canoe  with  board  topsides  called  montaria,  of  less 
length  but  more  breadth. 

To  doctor  one  of  my  men  who  had  been 
stricken,  we  made  an  early  first  camp  at  Marabitanas, 
another  abandoned  fort  on  a most  attractive  site, 
which  offers  a fine  view  of  the  Cababuri,  or  Imeri 
Sierras,  the  long  row  of  hills  to  the  northeast,  bearing 
isolated  conical  peaks.  When  we  started  on  again 
we  were  minus  one  paddle,  though  later  I picked  up 
a stray  Indian  as  we  neared  the  Brazilian  frontier. 
One  hundred  years  ago  this  was  a locality  of  much 
activity,  but  we  saw  only  two  deserted  houses 
upon  an  open  twelve  foot  bank  (high  for  the  Negro) 
in  a cleared  space  of  perhaps  an  acre,  bitten  out  of 
the  surrounding  forest,  a shattered  flagstaff,  a rot- 
ting lamp  post  leaning  towards  the  setting  sun  across 
the  river,  and  a rusted  cannon  of  ancient  make  lying 
unmounted  on  the  ground.  Back  to  the  northeast, 
rising  solitary  and  majestic,  is  the  Piedra  de  Cocui, 
a conical  solid  rock  monument  perhaps  one  thousand 
feet  high,  the  only  elevation  above  the  forest  level 
immediately  on  the  river  to  be  seen  between  here 
and  Forteleza.  Not  a living  creature  appeared  in 
sight  as  we  paused  to  view  the  border  line  dividing 


THE  INDIAN  FISH  TRAP 


95 


Brazil  and  Venezuela,  save  a large  white  crane,  which 
flapped  lazily  away. 

We  had  the  good  fortune  above  here  to  overtake 
an  Indian  who  was  visiting  his  “ cakouri,”  as  the  fish 
trap  is  locally  called,  and  we  forthwith  entered  upon 
a trade  with  him.  These  traps  are  common  to  the 
river  and  are  built  in  the  shape  of  a triangle  of  slats 
of  palm  and  set  near,  if  not  on,  a point.  Securing 
the  fish  after  they  are  in  the  trap  is  by  the  very  simple 
process  of  dropping  into  the  triangle  from  on  top 
and  hand  catching  them.  And  since  the  water  is 
clear,  it  was  entirely  possible  for  me  to  stand  on  the 
top  an  interested  spectator  of  the  manoeuvering  man 
and  fish.  By  such  traps  and  by  shooting  with  arrows 
from  small  canoes  in  which  they  sneak  along  the 
river  bank,  the  Indians  get  practically  all  their  fish; 
and  I was  much  more  impressed  by  their  waterman- 
ship than  by  their  marksmanship. 

We  got  three  fish  from  the  Indian,  who  went  off 
happy  with  tobacco  and  a small  horn  of  cachaca,  and 
made  our  noon  meal  on  the  spot ; I celebrated  further 
with  a bath  and  fresh  clothes,  which,  together  with 
the  treat  of  fresh  fish,  made  me  feel  quite  civilized 
again.  The  truth  is,  the  meal  became  a gorge,  as 
such  feasts  are  apt  to  be  on  a long  and  ill-provisioned 
trail;  and  when  we  started,  the  pace  was  sluggish. 
There  is  nothing  like  an  empty  stomach  to  spur  one 
to  endeavour.  I’ve  always  remembered  and  usually 
acted  upon  what  an  old  Hudson  Bay  Company  factor 
told  me  at  Great  Slave  Lake.  He  said  that  when  he 
wished  his  voyagers  to  make  good  time,  he  gave  them 
full  rations  for  only  three-quarters  of  the  distance, 
which  meant  they  must  keep  at  top  speed  to  have 


96 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


the  rations  last  out  the  full  distance.  The  fact  is, 
in  my  wilderness  travel,  I never  found  I need  give 
myself  much  concern  over  rationing  too  liberally, 
and  certainly  along  the  flowing  road  the  traveller 
who  lives  off  the  country  (as  he  must  much  of  the 
time)  need  have  no  fear  of  faring  too  sumptuously. 

We  made  rather  poor  time  for  the  balance  of  the 
day  after  the  noon  debauch,  and  a storm  of  unusual 
severity,  but  of  wondrous  beauty,  came  near  to 
putting  us  out  of  business  at  one  crossing  of  rapid 
water  where  the  wind  had  lashed  the  current  to  a fury. 
I never  shall  forget  the  lightning — curious  with  its 
vivid  flashes,  rather  than  of  the  usual  forked  variety. 
It  was  as  though  a great  illuminating  flame  suddenly 
flared  up  out  of  the  blackness,  and  though  it  aided  our 
progress,  the  thunder,  which  seemed  to  shake  the 
very  canoe,  made  the  crew  rather  miserable.  We 
kept  at  work,  however,  and  when  we  finally  tied  up 
in  the  downpour  I reckoned  we  were  not  over  a good 
twelve  hours  paddling  from  San  Carlos,  which  I ex- 
pected to  reach  the  next  night. 

But  the  flowing  road  is  full  of  surprises  that  sadly 
interrupt  schedules.  Starting  at  two  in  the  morning, 
we  were  swinging  at  a great  rate  just  as  day  dawned, 
when  a half  covered  rock  we  ran  onto  as  we  were 
steaming  around  a bend,  turned  the  canoe  partly  over. 
We  were  speedily  driven  back  by  the  current  into  the 
bushes,  some  of  us  swimming,  the  others  holding  the 
canoe,  which,  after  partial  bailing,  we  took  farther 
along  to  a rocky  point  where  we  unpacked  and  bailed 
it  thoroughly.  It  was  surprising  we  did  not  at  this 
and  other  upsets  lose  more  things ; the  explanation  of 
which  is  that  they  couldn’t  escape  from  the  low  set 


THE  COST  OF  UPSETTING 


97 


toldo,  the  provisions  at  the  back  preventing  the  water 
having  a clear  sweep  through.  Nor  did  the  wetting 
appear  much  to  atFect  the  mandioca;  at  least  we  ate 
it.  What  I regretted  most  of  my  losses  on  the  Negro 
was  that  of  the  mata-mata  turtle  so  rarely  to  be  seen 
in  captivity. 

We  lost  two  hours  on  account  of  the  mishap, 
and  before  we  started  again  the  men  must  needs 
eat  a while,  but  when  I got  off  I kept  them  going 
until  midnight,  and  early  the  next  morning  the  long 
sought  San  Carlos  loomed  on  the  bank  ahead  of  us. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  DIVIDE  OF  THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


When  you  have  pictured  a Mecca,  it’s  not  easy 
to  be  reconciled  to  a Gehenna.  And  as  I looked  upon 
the  bedraggled  settlement  we  had  now  come  to,  I 
could  scarce  believe  it  to  be  the  San  Carlos  towards 
which  my  eyes  for  so  long  had  been  directed.  Stand- 
ing on  a clear,  comparatively  high  bank,  the  settle- 
ment had  appeared  quite  imposing  from  the  river, 
but  after  we  landed,  it  developed  into  a woebegone 
collection  of  houses  squatting  dejectedly  around  a 
large  flagstaff  bearing  plaza,  grass  grown,  and 
equally  neglected. 

Here,  in  1801,  Alexander  von  Humboldt,  the 
great  German  explorer,  terminated  his  journey  from 
the  north,  and  fifty  years  later,  the  famous  English 
naturalist,  Alfred  Wallace,  passed  through  on  the 
way  to  Javita,  his  most  northerly  point.  Both  write 
of  San  Carlos  (which  by  the  way  is  from  four  to 
five  hundred  feet  elevation  above  sea  level)  as  Ven- 
ezuela’s chief  frontier  post,  having  much  trade  and 
a large  amount  of  self-esteem.  But,  in  common  with 
all  the  old  posts  on  the  upper  Rio  Negro,  its  glory 
and  its  trade  have  vanished,  and  it  looked,  at  the 
time  of  my  visit,  as  though  self-respect  also  was 
going  rapidly.  In  the  days  of  its  prosperity  it  sup- 
ported upwards  of  two  hundred  inhabitants;  I found 
it  with  not  more  than  fifty,  I should  say  at  a rough 
guess,  who  were  actually  in  residence. 

The  Commandante,  to  whom  I carried  Pecil’s 
letter,  received  me  politely,  but  on  learning  my  desire 


98 


THE  TOWN  OF  “ NADA  ” 


99 


for  supplies,  a canoe,  and  men,  he  exclaimed  with 
increasing  emphasis  and  shrugging  shoulders,  “ Nada 
Senor,  nada,  nada”  (nothing).  And  I feared  he 
hadn’t  exaggerated  local  conditions  when  I looked 
around  the  room  of  his  home  in  which  we  held  our 
conference,  and  over  the  dozen  or  so  of  men  that 
crowded  upon  us,  raising  a babel  of  suggestion.  It 
was  a scene  eloquent  with  the  story  of  San  Carlos 
decadence.  The  whitewashed  walls  of  the  adobe  were 
entirely  without  ornament  and  badly  in  need  of  fresh- 
ening; the  floor  was  bare  and  worn,  while  the  entire 
furniture  comprised  a table,  and  three  chairs  which 
had  seen  better  days.  On  one  of  these  I sat  with 
extreme  care  and  some  uncertainty  of  equilibrium,  and 
between  the  Commandante  and  me,  on  the  third  one, 
perched  a cavernous-mouthed  individual  who  ap- 
peared to  regard  himself  as  the  interlocutor  of  the 
occasion.  When  I did  not  at  once  comprehend  what 
the  Commandante  said  in  his  too  rapid  speech,  this 
creature,  peering  anxiously  into  my  face  for  the  dawn 
of  understanding,  and  missing  it,  would  forthwith 
render  his  own  version  at  the  top  of  his  loud  voice,  to 
my  distress,  as  though  deafness  were  my  trouble, 
rather  than  faltering  Spanish. 

Every  one  in  the  room  took  his  cue  from 
the  Commandante;  was,  in  a word,  polite  and  dis- 
couraging. They  were  unanimously  of  the  opinion 
that  neither  men  nor  a canoe  could  be  engaged,  and 
as  for  provisions,  they  had  not  enough  for  themselves, 
they  said,  but  would  sell  me  a few  small  (five  cent) 
boxes  of  matches  at  the  equivalent  of  fifty  cents  the 
box.  If  I would  be  patient,  perhaps  “ poco-poco  ” 
(little  by  little)  I should  be  able  to  pick  up  a crew, 
and  maybe  a canoe.  Meantime,  they  assured  me,  in 


100 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


the  meaningless  form  of  the  country,  that  the  town 
and  all  therein  was  at  my  disposition.  Now,  indeed, 
did  I begin  to  fully  appreciate,  by  comparison,  the 
considerate  helpfulness  of  Miguel  Pecil — el  cahallero 
del  alto  Rio  Negro. 

“ Poco-poco  ” was  no  new  expression  to  me;  it 
had  become  a familiar  of  my  South  American  ad- 
ventures, though  the  situation  here  did  in  truth  seem 
more  than  usually  hopeless.  When,  however,  you 
have  reached  a divisional  milestone  in  your  journey, 
marking  the  final  stretch,  you’re  not  likely  to  give 
up  until  you  come  to  the  last  ditch;  and  I did  not 
consider  I had  yet  reached  that  boundary. 

Taking  advantage  of  the  Commandante’s  prof- 
fered hospitality  (the  howling  gentleman  having 
locked  his  house  and  gone  away  after  urging  the 
“ poor  honour  ” of  its  liberty  upon  me,  with  truly 
simulated  Venezuelan  humility)  I moved  my  belong- 
ings into  an  adjoining  empty  room  and,  locking  it, 
went  forth  to  replace  my  crew,  which,  following  the 
custom  of  the  river  (of  every  borderland  river  in 
fact) , would  go  no  farther.  Indians  will  engage  to  go 
only  to  a locality  or  into  a region  known  to  them. 
Rarely  can  you  induce  them  to  venture  beyond. 

All  that  day,  and  far  into  the  night,  I searched 
unceasingly  for  a canoe,  the  inhabitants  viewing  my 
anxious  diligence  with  apathetic  and  undisguised 
amusement.  They’d  all  listen  politely,  then  shrug 
their  shoulders  as  they  repeated  the  dread  word 
“ nada  ” ; others  leaned  against  the  door  scratching 
and  mute.  Everyone  appeared  to  be  scratching, 
though  the  mosquitoes  seemed  to  be  not  so  vicious  as 
to  warrant  such  industry.  If  you  meet  a copperish- 


AN  INSTANCE  OI-'  THE  GREAT  BOULDER  BANK,  OFTEN  SEEN  ON  THE  UPPER  NEGRO 


WISDOM  OF  EARLY  STARTING 


101 


complexioned  gentleman,  one  hand  scratching  his 
posterior,  the  other  working  feverishly  over  the 
upper  body  under  the  shirt,  set  him  down  from  San 
Carlos  by  the  Casiquiare,  upon  whose  official  seal 
should  be  a man  couchant  scratching,  on  a forest  back- 
ground, with  bugs  rampant. 

At  last,  in  the  early  afternoon  of  the  second 
day,  I secured  a montaria;  and  it  was  the  identical 
canoe  I had  uncovered  at  the  very  outset  of  my  quest, 
only  to  be  positively  informed  by  the  Commandante 
that  it  could  not  be  hired!  By  four  o’clock,  aided 
this  time  by  the  Commandante,  I had  pledged  six 
men  and  ordered  an  immediate  start,  much  to  the 
disgust  of  the  prospective  crew  and  all  their  friends, 
who  demurred  on  the  plea  of  its  being  so  near  night. 
But  I persisted,  and  together  with  cajolery  and  prom- 
ise of  extra  presents,  we  pushed  off  in  the  rain 
about  an  hour  before  dark.  We  camped  only  a little 
way  up  the  river,  where  the  men  got  all  the  post 
gossip  and  excitement  of  leaving  out  of  their  system, 
and  in  the  morning,  before  dawn,  were  under  way 
and  going  fine.  Thus,  that  one  hour  of  light  had 
really  saved  a day,  as  in  quitting  their  home  post 
for  such  a trip,  men  need  a night’s  sleep  to  shake 
them  down  to  the  humdrum  work  of  the  voyage. 
That  is  why,  on  such  journeys,  I invariably  plan 
and  allow  for  a late  afternoon  start  from  a new  point 
of  departure,*  especially  if  it  is  a settlement.  In 
that  way  all  the  lingering  and  otherwise  delaying 
farewells  and  the  general  dilly-dallying  which  pre- 
cedes actual  getting  away  do  not  matter;  and  in  the 
morning  we  are  settled  to  business. 

Now  curiously,  and  by  way  of  recompense  for  its 


102 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


other  deficiencies,  San  Carlos  gave  me  the  best  crew 
I had  at  any  time  on  the  Negro.  They  were  all 
Indians  or  Venezuelan  half-breeds,  much  superior  to 
the  Brazilian  cross,  and  the  zip  they  put  into  their 
paddles  encouraged  me  to  feel  that  we  should  arrive 
at  San  Fernando  de  Atabapo  before  the  nine  days 
habitually  allotted  to  the  trip  had  expired.  They 
made  me  hustle,  I can  tell  you,  to  keep  in  beat  with 
the  usual  working  stroke,  and  when  they  resorted 
to  the  fancy  rapid-fire  stunts  of  the  expert  I joined 
the  “ also  ran  ” class. 

Starting  about  four  of  this  first  morning  we 
camped  for  breakfast  in  less  than  three  hours  at 
the  mouth  of  the  ill-famed  Casiquiare  River,  half 
a nfile  wide,  where  it  discharges  into  the  Negro,  and 
while  we  cooked  one  of  the  numerous  curassow 
relatives  I had  shot,  received  a generous  dose  of  the 
insects  mth  which  its  notorious  white  waters  are 
plentifully  supplied. 

From  here  the  Rio  Negro  becomes  narrower, 
showing  some  islands,  smaller  than  below,  and  a 
cooler  atmosphere  of  from  85°  to  90°  by  day  and  72° 
to  76°  at  night,  probably  caused  by  the  wind  and 
rain,  which  were  a considerable  factor  hereabouts. 
Bearing  more  westerly  than  hitherto,  the  river  runs 
past  Maroa,  where  it  takes  a decided  slant  towards  the 
setting  sun  and  finally  turns  almost  abruptly  south. 
Somewhere  between  San  Carlos  and  Maroa  the  Negro 
changes  its  name  to  Guainia,  increases  its  pace,  and 
along  its  sides  and  turns  replaces  with  rocks,  the 
great  banks  of  sand  which  we  had  seen  below  San 
Carlos  standing  out  of  water  two  or  three  feet,  and 
extending  at  times  a hundred  yards  or  more.  The 


DESPERATE  PADDLING 


103 


Indians  say  fish  are  scarce,  and  certainly  I saw  none 
of  the  traps  common  to  the  lower  river.  In  general 
appearance  it  is  much  like  the  N egro — the  low  banks 
being  covered  by  the  same  monotonous  forest  hedge. 
But  its  waters  are  deceptive.  Unbroken  in  its  middle 
course,  you  do  not  appreciate  the  force  of  the  current 
until  you  attempt  to  cross ; then  as,  out  of  the  corner 
of  your  eye,  you  see  with  dismay  the  canoe  slipping 
steadily  backward  despite  your  desperate  paddling, 
you  realize  the  hidden  power  of  that  smooth  flowing, 
deep,  black  body. 

We  met  one  canoe  of  four  Indians,  and  passed 
several  deserted  houses  in  one  of  which  we  slept,  or 
rather  the  crew  did ; I remained  in  the  uba,  and,  inci- 
dentally, was  surprised  at  their  burning  the  lantern  all 
night,  curled  round  it  like  dogs  before  a fire.  We  were 
running  our  day’s  travel  late  into  the  night,  starting 
as  early  as  two-thirty  or  three  in  the  morning,  and 
encountering  storm  constantly,  often  obliged  to 
lay  behind  a boulder  point  until  some  particularly  se- 
vere gust  had  eased  a bit  so  we  might  circumvent 
safely  the  rocks  which  continued  to  come  more  and 
more  in  evidence  as  we  advanced.  F or  one  wild,  beau- 
tiful stretch  the  river  narrows  to  three  hundred  yards 
racing  through  two  upstanding  great  rocks,  which  cut 
the  water  into  cross  currents  extremely  difficult  to 
negotiate.  And  on  the  day  following,  at  noon,  in  a 
blinding  rain  storm  and  a breeze  which  brought  the 
mercury  down  to  84°,  we  arrived  at  another  post  of 
departed  glory  and  trade,  Maroa,  once  a thriving 
centre  of  boat  building,  in  the  days  when  native 
products  went  out  by  the  Negro  rather  than  by  the 
Orinoco,  as  most  of  what  is  left  does  now. 


104 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


Where  the  Giiainia,  locally  spelled  “ Gauynia,” 
bends  to  the  south,  we  left  it  and  entered  the 
Pimichin,  a winding  little  river  which  maintains  a gen- 
eral northerly  course,  averaging  in  width  about  thirty 
to  forty  feet,  though  at  times  of  low  water  narrowing 
to  twenty,  and  in  the  full  of  the  wet  season  spreading 
to  seventy-five  feet  or  more.  Feeling  our  way  slowly 
through  the  storm  and  the  dark,  saved  several  times 
from  upsetting  only  by  the  high  skill  of  Geronomo, 
as  I christened  the  patron,  we  came  finally,  near  ten 
o’clock  that  night,  to  the  Puerto,  the  lower  gate  of  the 
ten  mile  land  neck  which  separates  two  of  the  world’s 
greatest  river  basins — the  mighty  Amazon  with  its 
multiple  feeders  at  the  south,  the  wide  draining 
Orinoco  on  the  north. 

No  one  lives  on  the  south  side  of  the  portage,  but 
we  found  a squaw  and  a young  Indian  camped  in  the 
lee  of  a big  boulder  at  the  beginning  of  the  forest  trail 
to  Javita  on  the  north  end,  and  I tried  without  success 
to  induce  one  or  the  other  to  go  over  the  mountain  for 
carriers,  that  we  might  have  them  in  the  morning, 
and  so  get  my  cargo  across  without  delay.  But 
they  refused,  declaring  the  trail  “ muy  malo  ” (very 
bad)  with  snakes  and  tigre  plentiful.  Then  I endeav- 
oured, and  likewise  failed,  to  persuade  one  of  my  own 
Indians  to  go  with  me.  They  protested  against  travel 
at  night  on  road  avowedly  disreputable,  which  none 
had  passed  over  except  by  day.  So  we  sat  around  the 
boulder  talking  it  out  while  I expressed  myself  as 
plainly  as  I could  on  their  faint  heartedness,  and 
sought  to  tempt  one  of  the  lot  to  show  me  the  way. 
At  last  the  lanky  Tomaso  agreeing  to  go,  we  started 
forthwith; — and  soon  discovered  that  the  squaw  had 
correctly  described  the  road  as  “ muy  malo.” 


THE  LAST  RESORT 


105 


It  was  in  truth  as  rough  a ten  miles  as  ever  I cov- 
ered on  tropical  trail.  In  the  days  gone  when 
Pimichin  lived  and  the  portage  was  a busy  highway 
the  path  was  periodically  cleared  of  encroaching  jun- 
gle and  fallen  trees  by  the  Indians,  who  went  in  bodies, 
because  this  isthmus  always  has  had  an  evil  reputation 
for  jaguar  and  especially  for  snakes.  However  ex- 
aggerated the  snake  stories  may  be  (as  such  stories 
unfailingly  are) , there  is  no  lack  of  foundation  for  the 
characterization  of  the  road  itself.  It  is  but  an  indis- 
tinct trail,  which,  when  not  obliterated  by  the  un- 
usually severe  rain  storms  common  to  this  section, 
winds  through  swamp  and  over  mountain,  crossing 
several  little  streams  where  the  spanning  logs  that 
once  served  to  make  fair  passage  have  rotted  until 
they  are  worse  than  no  bridge  at  all. 

We  picked  our  way  without  too  much  hinder- 
ance  until  we  had  gone  a third  of  the  distance,  when 
Tomaso  falling  broke  the  lantern  glass  and  the  storm 
made  relighting  an  impossibility.  As  fast  and  as 
often  as  Tomaso  succeeded  in  bringing  a flame  to  life 
the  wind  killed  it.  In  fact,  he  wasted  so  much  time 
with  the  lantern  that  I took  it  away;  whereupon  he 
refused  to  go  forward,  saying  he  was  afraid  without 
a light.  I did  my  persuasive  best,  offering  presents, 
but  could  not  move  him  until  in  sheer  desperation  I 
assumed  the  role  of  boss,  sliding  my  revolver  holster 
ostentatiously  to  the  front  of  my  belt  as  though  to 
back  up  my  commands.  It  was  a resort  I did  not 
relish,  I confess,  but  I was  bound  to  overcome  the 
obstacles  in  my  path,  and  to  use  the  most  effective 
means  at  hand.  Otherwise,  I should  still  be  flounder- 
ing somewhere  along  the  flowing  road. 

So  we  went  stumblingly  along  through  mud  and 


106 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


water,  occasionally  to  the  waist,  often  to  the  knees, 
and  always  ankle  deep  in  the  swampland;  climbing 
over  fallen  trees  or  balancing  ourselves  along  the 
full  length  of  wind-falls  that  saved  us  from  more 
wading;  trailing  vines  catching  our  feet  and  stubborn 
undergrowth  slapping  our  faces.  In  such  going,  the 
recurring  prophecy  of  snakes  was  not  calculated  to  be 
comforting;  but  I got  consolation  from  the  other 
thought  that,  never  but  once  in  all  my  wilderness 
wanderings,  had  I found  anything  so  evil  as  painted. 
And  so  it  proved  with  the  snakes.  Of  course  we 
“ heard  things  ” repeatedly  to  the  fright  of  Tomaso 
and  my  own  disturbance  I frankly  acknowledge,  but 
at  all  events  by  a little  after  four  o’clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, we  had  arrived  unscathed,  if  bedraggled,  at 
Javita  across  the  “ mountain  ” portage. 

Within  an  hour  I had  ten  Indians,  men,  women 
and  boys,  on  the  road  to  the  Puerto  at  Pimichin, 
where  they  arrived  at  eleven.  Two  hours  later  they 
were  returning  with  my  cargo  distributed  among 
them  in  small  packs,  which  they  carried  on  their 
heads  topped  by  large  trailing  palm  leaves  as  pro- 
tection against  alternating  sun  and  rain,  and  suggest- 
ing at  a distance  nothing  so  much  in  appearance  as 
the  frequently  seen  moving  column  of  great  sauba 
ants  half  concealed  by  their  burden  of  leaves. 

By  daylight  the  portage  revealed  a large  propor- 
tion of  above  the  average  big  trees,  especially  cedars 
and  ceibas,  in  the  very  dense  forest;  but  the  especial 
interest  to  me,  and  the  real  motive  of  my  more  or 
less  sentimental  journey  hither,  was  a sight  of  some  of 
the  fast  disappearing  log  skids,  across  which  for  four 
days  Humboldt  and  his  twenty-three  men  had  drag- 


JAVITA, 

WHICH  HUMBOLDT  AND  WALLACE  FOUND  PEOPLED  AND  PROSPEROUS.  BUT  WHICH  NOW 
HAS  BUT  A FEW  FAMILIES  OF  INDIANS  WHO  EKE  OUT 
A BARE  EXISTENCE 


MY  CAMP  ON  THE  NECK  OF  LAND  DIVIDING  THE  ORINOCO  AND  THE  AMAZON  RIVER 
SYSTEMS.  FROM  HERE  WE  PORTAGED  TO  JAVITA 


AN  ANTIDOTE  FOR  SNAKE  BITE 


107 


ged  his  canoe  to  Pimichin  over  one  hundred  years  ago. 

The  trail  made  good  its  evil  name  on  the  return 
trip,  one  of  the  carriers  being  struck  by  a four  foot 
long,  white  bellied  brownish  snake.  Although  I killed 
the  serpent  the  entire  party  fled  terror  stricken  to- 
wards Javita,  now  not  far,  carrying  the  fainting  man 
whose  wound  they  dressed  (and  cured)  with  a brew  of 
some  vegetable  antidote,  leaving  me  chasing  the  most 
superb  butterfly  I saw  in  all  South  America.  The 
rain  had  ceased  at  about  four  in  the  afternoon,  and 
the  sun  blazed  out  as  we  drew  near  the  more  open 
upland  pass,  giving  us  such  a steaming  as  I have  not 
often  endured.  Here  just  ahead  of  me  fluttered  this 
marvellously  coloured  insect,  as  large  as  my  hand,  of 
royal  purple  with  light  blue  under  wings.  Up  and 
down  the  trail,  and  deep  into  the  woods  on  both  sides, 
careless  of  lurking  serpents,  I ran  after  that  beautiful 
flutterer  without  avail.  I could  get  within  a foot  or 
two,  but  always  it  evaded  the  eager  reaching  hand; 
and  as  I pursued  it,  I remember  I wondered  how  such 
lovely  life  keeps  dry.  Where  do  they  hide  during  the 
soaking  and  long-continued  rains? 

The  unkempt  Indian  pueblo  of  Javita  offers 
another  illustration  of  the  unprosperous  days  which 
have  fallen  upon  all  the  little  settlements  between  San 
Gabriel  and  San  Fernando  de  Atabapo.  When 
Humboldt  passed  through,  and  again  in  the  day  of 
Wallace  (1851),  it  was  a flourishing  village  support- 
ing from  one  hundred  and  fifty  to  two  hundred  con- 
tented souls.  On  this,  my  first  visit  (1906),  a large 
majority  of  the  houses  were  deserted,  and  I doubt  if 
even  a score  of  adults  could  have  mustered.  Hum- 
boldt was  able  to  restock  his  supplies;  Wallace  out- 


108 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


fitted  here  for  his  return  trip  to  San  Carlos ; they  could 
spare  me  barely  enough  for  one  meall  As  I grew 
more  and  more  familiar  with  the  impoverished  condi- 
tions and  moribund  tribes,  it  was  hard  to  realize  that 
this  neck  of  land  had  been  a bone  of  vigorous  conten- 
tion between  the  Spaniards  and  the  Portuguese  in 
the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

Diversion  of  trade  is  largely  answerable  for  the 
decline  of  San  Carlos,  San  Gabriel,  Maroa,  Javita 
and  the  other  impaired  river  ports,  but  also  the 
nomadic  nature  of  the  natives  must  share  responsi- 
bility for  the  general  deterioration.  Not  that  they  are 
hunters ; the  density  of  the  forests  does  not  favour  the 
chase,  and  in  truth,  amid  the  teeming  wild  animal  life 
comparatively  few  species  along  the  flowing  road  may 
be  classed  as  edible — viz.,  rodents,  peccaries,  deer  in 
the  outskirts  of  the  woodland,  and  the  timid  tapir 
of  the  interior;  also  the  curassows. 

Thus  it  is  that  the  Indians  turn  to  the  rivers  where 
fish  abound,  and  where  they  can  the  more  readily  clear 
a spot  for  a planting  of  the  mandioca  and  plantains, 
which  they  abandon  usually  after  the  second  year  for 
virgin  soil.  They  make  less  of  their  natural  resources 
than  almost  any  primitive  folk  I have  visited.  This 
ought  to  be  a land  of  plenty,  for  with  scarcely  any  care 
all  the  southern  fruits  and  vegetables  will  grow,  and 
the  rivers  are  full  of  fish;  yet,  throughout  the  about 
three  thousand  miles  I paddled  first  and  last  over  the 
flowing  road  (not  counting  duplications)  a house- 
hold along  the  way  with  to-morrow’s  dinner  in  the 
larder  was  the  exception.  Fancy  going  hungry 
alongside  a river! 

It  is  reckoned  a voyage  of  three  days  and  nights 


THE  JOY  OF  DOWN  STREAM  CANOEING  109 


from  Javita  down  the  iTemi  to  the  Atabapo  River, 
and  so  on  to  the  town  of  San  Fernando;  but  we 
made  the  distance  between  five  o’clock  of  an  after- 
noon and  ten  o’clock  of  the  morning  of  the  second 
day  (thus  taking  seven  days  from  San  Carlos  to 
San  Fernando)  notwithstanding  we  had  to  lay  to 
for  an  hour  or  so  at  midnight  on  account  of  a storm 
which  all  but  swamped  us.  But  it  was  a joyful  trip 
despite  the  hard  work  and  the  frequent  heavy  rain. 
The  country  had  quite  changed.  In  place  of  the  un- 
broken forest  line  there  were  now  occasional  open 
spots  of  rolling  land,  refreshing  indeed,  after  long 
travel  between  hedge-like  banks.  Even  where  the 
forest  reached  to  the  river,  a low  bank  was  often  vis- 
ible, while  the  relieving  grace  of  palms  in  close  grow- 
ing groups  or  scattered  individuals  lifted  the  gloom  of 
the  otherwise  compact  foliage.  In  places,  what 
appeared  to  be  mangroves  covered  low  banks,  even 
extending  out  into  the  water  quite  after  the  inland 
manner  of  Sumatran  and  Malayan  rivers. 

Once  in  a while  we  saw  islands,  now  grown  smaller 
in  size  and  fewer  in  number,  having  sometimes  a shore 
line  of  fine  white  sand,  but  more  often  of  the  boulders, 
which  also  armoured  most  of  the  points  I observed 
as  we  sped  past.  Yes,  “ sped  ” is  now  the  word,  for 
we  were  going  down-stream — the  first  relaxation  after 
weeks  of  hard,  continuous  struggling  against  a strong 
current.  Ah ! the  joy  of  being  able  to  rest  your  paddle 
and  know  that  the  river  itself  is  carrying  you  on  at  the 
rate  of  four  or  five  miles  an  hour,  instead  of  hurling 
its  great  weight  against  you!  Only  the  man  who  has 
bent  over  a paddle  day  after  day  in  the  stress  of  up- 
river work  can  appreciate  the  sensation  of  watching 


110 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


the  bank  glide  by  and  keep  on  gliding  while  you 
indolently  fill  your  pipe,  trusting  to  the  steersman  to 
hold  the  canoe  in  its  course.  Now,  for  the  first  time, 
too,  we  were  keeping  the  middle  of  the  stream,  where 
there  were  no  insects  to  torture  and  no  tree  branches  to 
rip  the  toldo  or  shower  us  with  ants.  The  long  bends 
we  had  toiled  around  for  two  hours  at  a time  we  now 
left  behind  in  ten  to  twenty  minutes.  It  was  a veri- 
table jo)^  ride. 

But  San  Fernando,  where  I planned  to  outfit  for 
an  expedition  to  the  headwaters  of  the  Orinoco  River, 
proved  to  be  a sad  sequel.  A hardluck  tale  is  not 
interesting  to  anyone  but  yourself,  and  this  one 
differs  little  from  the  rest  of  its  class.  Suffice  it  to 
say  my  cup  overflowed.  The  crew  I managed  to  get 
hold  of  after  much  manoeuvering  would  not  take  me 
where  I wished  to  go.  I had  to  leave  them  on  the 
river  shortly  after  starting,  and  finally  to  abandon 
my  project  and  make  my  bitterly  disappointed  way 
out  to  that  other  San  Fernando  on  the  Apure. 

The  good  Lord  has  done  much  for  San  Fernando 
on  the  Atabapo  River  in  the  way  of  attractive  environ- 
ment, but  man  has  made  very  little  of  the  natural 
endowment.  Situated  practically  at  the  meeting  of 
the  rivers  Guaviare,  Atabapo  and  Orinoco  (seven 
hundred  miles  from  the  sea),  it  is  headquarters  for 
the  small  amount  of  rubber  gathered  on  these  rivers 
and  the  upper  Negro,  as  well  as  for  the  piassava 
industry  which  occupies  the  Indians  hereabouts. 
Being  the  largest  settlement  between  Ciudad  Bolivar 
on  the  north,  and  Manaos  on  the  south,  one  is  inclined 
perhaps  to  expect  too  much  of  it.  At  least,  I found 
it  rather  insolent  and  crude;  an  uninviting  assembly 


DIFFICULTIES  IN  WAY  OF  SETTLEMENT  111 


of  adobes,  and  either  a gun  or  a knife  on  the  belt  of 
many  of  its  men. 

If  ever  this  region  becomes  settled,  San  F ernando 
should  develop  into  one  of  the  most  important  inland 
cities  of  South  America.  But  will  this  section  ever  be 
livable?  Not  for  generations  upon  generations  of 
pioneers,  in  my  opinion;  and  only  in  the  compara- 
tively elevated  regions.  The  blanket  of  forest  (a 
standing  menace)  ; the  difficulties  of  travel  (in  large 
areas  possible  only  by  canoe)  ; the  insects  (a  pest  be- 
yond belief  everywhere  except  on  black  waters)  con- 
vince me  that  no  industrial  impression  will  ever  be 
made  upon  this  land  until  an  army  of  immigrants 
simultaneously  attack  a given  section  with  provisions 
and  means  sufficient  to  support  them  a few  years  until 
they  have  overcome  the  jungle  and  attained  to  de- 
pendable harvests.  It’s  no  place  for  the  lone  farmer. 
The  tropical  growth  encroaches  too  rapidly  upon  a 
small  clearing  to  allow  of  successful  results  in  occa- 
sional or  individual  agricultural  effort. 

And  this  is  reckoning  without  the  insect  host,  or 
the  fever — a forbidding  pair! 

I feel  that  the  next  adventurer  whose  response 
to  the  wanderlust  carries  him  across  my  tracks  here, 
will  find  San  Fernando  as  I left  it.  No  doubt  its 
chance  would  be  improved  were  it  possible  to  eliminate 
the  thirty  to  forty  miles  of  rocks  and  rapids  which 
connect  the  forbidding  cataracts  of  Atures  and 
Maipures  to  make  of  them  a natural  barrier  to  upper 
Orinoco  navigation;  but  there  they  stand,  and  there 
they  will  stand  long  after  man  has  ceased  troubling. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THROUGH  THE  GATEWAY  OF  THE  EL  DORADO 


On  the  Mapa  Fisico  y Politico  de  Venezuela  (1884) 
Maroa  stands  forth  in  the  heavy  black  letters  by 
which  we  are  accustomed  to  recognize  important  cen- 
tres ; in  reality  it  is  a group  of  palm  and  adobe  houses 
fewer  in  number  than  the  sorry  collection  at  San  Car- 
los, one  hundred  miles  down  the  river,  but  having  a 
larger  portion  inhabited,  and  all  of  them  more 
sightly.  Yet  Maroa  came  honestly  by  her  distinc- 
tion long  since  passed  into  tradition  save  among  the 
map-makers  of  upper  South  America.  During  the 
seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  the  armed  peace 
established  between  the  Spaniards  of  Venezuela  and 
the  Portuguese  of  Brazil,  nourished — at  wide  in- 
tervals along  the  Rio  Negro  between  San  Carlos 
and  San  Gabriel — thriving  settlements  which  served 
as  frontier  posts  to  safeguard  the  trade  that  displaced 
the  bitter  if  desultory  warfare  previously  existing. 

Of  these  settlements  none  prospered  more  than 
Maroa,  peculiarly  favoured  by  its  location  to  the 
course  of  traffic.  Three  or  four  days’  journey  to  the 
south  of  it  the  Casiquiare,  entering  the  Rio  Negro, 
thus  joins  the  Orinoco  and  the  Amazon  river  systems 
to  establish  the  world’s  most  extended  flowing  road; 
while  almost  directly  opposite  on  the  Negro,  the  six- 
league  Pimichin  provides  another  connecting  link 
with  the  Orinoco  via  the  ten-mile  portage  to  Javita 
and  the  Atabapo  River.  It  is  a natural  trans-ship- 
ping point,  and  became  in  those  days  a frontier  ship- 


112 


SEARCHING  FOR  THE  FABLED  LAND  113 


yard  of  renown.  JNIaster-workmen  came  from  Spain, 
Indians  abandoned  the  jungle  to  apprentice  them- 
selves to  the  new  trade,  and  the  fame  of  Maroa  as  a 
builder  of  canoes  and  freight-boats  spread  far.  It 
was  the  golden  age  of  the  alto  Rio  Negro. 

Other  near-by  smaller  hamlets — Tomo,  San 
Miguel — flourished  from  sheer  force  of  juxtaposi- 
tion. The  Jesuit  missions  multiplied,  to  the  well-being 
of  the  natives,  who  had  suffered  much  during  the 
wanton  activities  of  those  undaunted  though  merciless 
pioneers,  the  Conquistadores ; for  here,  too,  had  been 
set  up  a gateway  to  the  El  Dorado  by  one  of  the 
hardiest  of  the  intrepids — Lope  de  Aguirre,  the 
“ Wanderer  ” — who  in  1561  passed  up  the  Casiquiare 
looking  for  storied  treasure. 

For  the  better  part  of  two  centuries,  indeed,  had 
the  reported  riches  of  this  mysterious  land  been  noised 
about  the  small  world,  calling  soldiers  of  fortune  to 
every  gateway  and  putting  in  motion  a series  of  dar- 
ing explorations  never  since  equalled.  From  the  Meta 
River  on  the  north  to  the  Caqueta  ( a north  branch  of 
the  Amazon)  on  the  south;  from  the  Andes’  Cordil- 
leras on  the  west  to  the  Rio  Negro  and  the  Orinoco 
on  the  east — so  ranged  the  fabled  land  where  gold  and 
precious  stones  were  said  to  await  the  successful 
adventurer.  Von  Huten  searched  the  wilderness  be- 
tween the  Guaviare  River,  which  empties  into  the 
Orinoco  at  San  Fernando  de  Atabapo,  and  the 
Uaupes,  entering  the  Rio  Negro  just  above  San 
Gabriel.  Ordaz,  a captain  of  Cortes,  in  1531  surveyed 
the  Orinoco  as  far  as  Atures,  the  north  end  of  the 
great  cataracts;  Herrera  went  up  the  Meta  via  the 
Orinoco  four  years  later;  Orellana  in  1561  voyaged 


114. 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


down  the  Amazon;  Quesada  hunted  far  to  the  west 
and  south,  even  into  Peru.  And  all  the  while  the 
restless  Caribs  spread  the  fable  along  their  voyages, 
which  began  at  the  mouth  of  the  Orinoco  and  extended 
south  to  the  Rio  N egro. 

What  energy  they  had! — those  first  pioneers  and 
their  immediate  followers,  who,  so  early  as  1776,  had 
built  a chain  of  blockhouses  reaching  from  San 
Carlos,  north  to  the  lower  Orinoco,  across  a country 
now  rated  as  “ unexplored.”  Their  zeal  and  enter- 
prise under  the  tremendous  obstacles  of  forest  and 
climate  and  insect  pest  is  no  less  astounding  than  is 
the  now  complete  abandonment  of  a region  once  so 
valorously  secured. 

And  with  the  blockliouses  and  the  soldiers  shortly 
thereafter  disappeared  the  missions,  wliich  from  early 
in  the  eighteenth  century  had  been  numerous  and 
populous — a haven  for  the  Indians  and  a stimulant 
to  trade.  Even  in  1801,  when  the  great  Humboldt 
made  his  monumental  trip  from  the  Apure  River  to 
Esmeralda  on  the  Orinoco,  he  found  missions 
throughout  the  full  length  of  his  course.  Now,  how- 
ever, the  missions  are  deserted;  Maroa  builds  no  boats, 
and  El  Dorado  is  only  a historic  incident  of  which 
few  living  today  in  the  land  of  its  nativity  have 
scarcely  even  heard. 

No;  Maroa  is  not  the  kind  of  place  one  would 
visit  a second  time  without  urgent  need,  and  the  very 
good  reason  that  took  me  there  again  was  to  seek  a 
crew  for  a venture  into  the  Orinoco  head-waters. 

Since  the  defeat  of  my  first  attempt  I had  studied 
long  and  exhaustively  the  question  of  the  most  ad- 


PLANNING  TO  REACH  THE  UPPER  ORINOCO  115 


vantageous  point  of  departure,  and  how  best  to  make 
my  sally  into  this  forbidding  up-river  region. 

Before  I had  obtained  intimate  acquaintance  with 
this  particular  country  and  people,  my  plan  was  to 
ascend  the  Orinoco  from  Atabapo,  making  a side  trip 
up  the  Ventuario,  which  has  always  fascinated  me  as 
being  the  flowing  division  of  the  sixteenth-century 
highway  to  the  lower  Orinoco  via  a mountain 
(Maigualida)  portage  and  the  Caura  River.  But, 
with  the  advantage  of  one  visit  to  San  Fernando  de 
Atabapo,  I knew  through  unhappy  failure  something 
of  the  difficulty  of  securing  voyagers  at  that  townlet, 
which  devotes  itself  chiefly  to  rubber  and  piassava, 
and  when  not  so  occupied  prefers  to  stay  at  home  and 
enjoy  itself.  I still  retained  a vivid  remembrance 
of  my  previous  years  conflict  with  the  men,  who 
though  engaged  to  take  me  up-river,  persisted  in 
going  down-stream,  and  finally  (when  I refused  to 
go  farther  in  the  direction  opposite  to  my  arrange- 
ment and  desire)  taking  my  canoe  and  provisions, 
abandoned  me  at  a two-hut  settlement  not  very  far 
below  the  Ventuario. 

With  experience  bought  dearly  at  both  ends  of 
the  line  therefore  on  two  separate  occasions,  my  best 
chance  of  getting  help  seemed  to  be  among  these 
Indians  of  J avita  and  Maroa.  My  most  direct  course 
I calculated  to  be  one  of  the  canos  coming  into  the 
Guainia  from  the  east,  which  are  locally  thought 
to  make  their  way  far  inland,  and  in  one  or  more 
instances  believed  to  cross  entirely  to  the  Casiquiare 
River.  In  other  words,  instead  of  retracing  the 
Guainia,  as  the  Rio  Negro  is  here  called,  and  then 
having  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  of  the  pestif- 


116 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


erous  Casiquiare  to  cover  before  reaching  the 
Orinoco,  my  simple  scheme  was  to  cut  across  from 
somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Maroa,  thus  sav- 
ing, if  I got  through,  a good  half  of  the  Casiquiare’s 
length — the  lower  and  worse  half  which  winds  part 
way  round  the  compass  and  over  troublesome  rapids 
before  flowing  west  into  the  Negro.  My  ambition 
was  not  to  explore  the  Casiquiare  of  notorious  and 
deserved  reputation  for  insect  pest,  but  to  arrive  on 
the  upper  Orinoco  with  certainty  and  with  the  least 
possible  delay.  Apart,  too,  from  shortening  the  dis- 
tance, the  cano  route  appealed  to  me  because  the 
marauders  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries 
are  said  to  have  used  such  by-paths  from  the  Guainia 
to  the  Casiquiare  to  outwit  their  less  adventuresome 
compatriots  in  pillage;  and  the  Portuguese  slave 
traders  also  travelled  these  short  cuts  to  reach  the 
then  Spanish  territory. 

But  it  is  one  thing  to  work  out  a plan  as  you  lie 
on  your  back  staring  at  the  stars,  and  quite  another 
to  put  it  into  execution.  Although  I came  to  Maroa, 
I was  none  too  hopeful  of  success.  To  begin  with, 
there  was  the  handicap  of  communicating  with  these 
Indians,  whose  patois  of  mixed  native  and  Spanish 
I could  comprehend  not  at  all  beyond  what  their  ges- 
tures conveyed;  and  though  they  understood  some 
simple  straight  Spanish,  they  were  slow  to  catch  my 
meaning — slower  than  any  I met  in  this  section,  where 
every  other  Indian  village  has  a tongue  of  its  own. 
Such  dialectic  variance  is  reported  also  on  many  of 
the  tributaries  of  the  Rio  Negro,  where  the  original 
speech  appears  to  have  merged  with  the  Spanish  or 
Portuguese  to  make  a linguistic  mess  requiring  es- 


THE  ISOLATED  CONICAL  MOUNTS  RISING  OUT  OF  THE  FLAT  LAND  TYPICAL  OF  THE 
UPPER  RIO  NEGRO 


THE  INDIAN  FISH  TRAP  OF  THE  UPPER  NEGRO 


A PORT  OF  DEPARTED  GLORY  117 

pecial  study.  I do  not  pretend  to  discuss  this  evo- 
lution; it  is  one  quite  beyond  me,  a mere  wilderness 
traveller  of  no  scientific  learning  on  the  subject,  but 
I do  testify  to  its  confounding  existence. 

Somewhat  increasing  my  problem,  too,  was  the 
absence — at  Atabapo,  I learned — of  the  head-man,  so 
I was  left  to  do  my  own  skirmishing ; not  a novel  situa- 
tion for  me,  nor  an  unwelcome  one.  I have  nearly 
always,  in  the  long  run,  got  more  satisfactory  results 
in  the  wilderness  by  dealing  direct  with  men  than 
through  an  intermediary.  What  did  seriously  hin- 
der me,  however,  was  native  disinclination  to  enter 
the  unknown,  and  especially  the  Orinoco  beyond  Es- 
meralda, commonly  regarded  throughout  all  this  re- 
gion as  a land  of  mystery  peopled  by  savages.  To 
make  bad  matters  worse,  it  happened  also  to  be  late 
in  April,  and  after  the  last  fishing  excursion  to  the 
Casiquiare  until  the  end  of  the  wet  season;  for  whether 
because  the  fish  do  not  bite  or  because  of  custom — my 
limited  converse  with  them  could  not  discover — the 
Indians  do  their  fishing  during  the  dry  period. 

Since  the  departed  days  of  boat-building,  life  is 
not  easy  with  these  Indians.  The  course  of  trade  has 
shifted,  no  development  has  retrieved  the  deflection, 
and  they  live  miserably  and  dwindle  unceasingly. 
Wallace,  in  1851,  found  from  three  hundred  and  fifty 
to  four  hundred  people  divided  between  Maroa  and 
J avita ; and  both  he  and  Humboldt  before  him  refer  to 
thriving  colonies  around  the  missions  all  along  the 
river  to  San  Carlos.  I doubt  if  I saw  one  hundred, 
and  not  many  in>  that  vicinity  escaped  me  first  and 
last.  These  occupy  themselves  mostly  by  gathering 
piassava,  or  serving  as  carriers  on  the  portage  between 


118 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


Pimichin  and  Javita,  whence  the  canoes  go  down  to 
San  Fernando  de  Atabapo,  which  in  a trade  sense 
drains  the  upper  Rio  Negro,  as  it  does  also  the  upper 
Orinoco  country ; a condition  which  further  and  more 
fully  explains  the  lost  commercial  glory  of  San  Carlos 
and  other  of  the  one-time  fairly  well-to-do  little  set- 
tlements on  the  upper  Negro. 

This  piassava  is  a black,  coarse  fibre  parasite, 
which  entwines  the  trunk,  but  more  plentifully  the 
base  of  the  stems  of  a palm  growing  on  nearly  all  the 
smaller  streams  that  extend  back  into  the  swampish 
sections,  where,  like  rubber,  it  appears  to  thrive  best  if 
not  exclusively — although  my  knowledge  is  not  suffi- 
ciently exact  to  give  that  statement  authority.  Wal- 
lace says  it  is  not  found  on  the  main  rivers,  and  I 
never  saw  it  except  on  flood-land  or  near  a lagoon. 
Unwound  from  the  palm  and  with  no  treatment  what- 
ever, this  fibre  is  forwarded  to  Atabapo,  where  it  is 
braided  into  the  rope  of  the  country  or  distributed  in 
bulk  to  Bolivar  for  the  making  elsewhere  of  the  fin- 
ished product.  It  is  not  as  strong  as  manila  fibre,  bui^ 
very  stout  none  the  less ; I saw  cables  of  it  in  use  on  the 
docks  at  Manaos,  and  all  the  freight-batelaos  and 
canoes  of  the  flowing  road  have  no  other  rope. 

Thus  nature  seems  to  have  sought  in  a measure  to 
recompense  the  impoverishment  of  this  passing  peo- 
ple by  distributing  among  them  with  a lavish  hand 
one  of  the  most  useful  of  her  many  gifts. 


CHAPTER  IX 

TO  THE  UPPER  ORINOCO  VIA  THE  CASIQUIARE 


The  Indians  I fell  among  were  friendly  and  dis- 
posed to  lend  a hand  to  my  project.  By  promise  of 
ample  reward  and  by  dint  of  playing  on  their  curios- 
ity, perhaps  entertaining  them — who  knows? — with 
some  of  the,  to  them,  novelties  of  my  equipment,  I 
aroused  their  interest.  They  seemed  to  get  great  fun 
out  of  my  collapsible  canvas  bucket;  and  when  I 
filled  the  filter  with  muddy  water  and  delivered  a 
clean  cupful  there  was  a real  sensation.  They  exam- 
ined, tasted,  and  treated  the  exhibition  as  a miracle. 
I think  I derived  as  much  amusement  as  they.  What- 
ever the  contributing  cause,  within  four  days  I had 
secured  six  men  and  a canoe — also  one  of  the  beauti- 
fully woven  grass  hammocks  made  by  up-Guainia 
Indians — and  we  set  out  to  execute  my  plan  of  reach- 
ing the  Casiquiare  by  canoe  overland  so  to  say. 

This  section  we  are  about  entering  is  worth  a 
word,  for  it  is  like  a great  delta  of  the  Orinoco,  Casi- 
quiare, Guainia  or  Negro,  and  Atabapo  Rivers;  being 
entirely  encompassed  by  those  streams,  except  for  a 
small  neck  in  the  northwest  which  attaches  it  to  the 
mainland.  It  is  wedge-shaped,  about  one  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  long,  and  not  over  fifty  broad  at  the 
top,  expanding  to  probably  one  hundred  miles  along 
the  Casiquiare.  The  Orinoco  bounds  its  northern  as 
well  as  its  eastern  face;  the  straighter  western 
boundary  is  formed  by  the  Guainia  and  the  Atabapo. 
Each  one  of  these  boundary  rivers  flows  in  a different 


119 


120 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


direction.  The  Orinoco  slopes  to  the  northwest;  the 
Casiquiare  southwest;  the  Atabapo  northward;  and 
the  Guainia  toward  the  northeast.  Roughly  this  tract 
is  estimated  as  having  an  area  of  three  thousand 
square  miles,  but  there  is  little  if  any  real  information 
concerning  the  character  of  its  interior.  One  can 
judge  only  from  what  one  has  seen  on  the  several 
river-banks  and  from  what  one  hears  in  the  country — 
a good  half  of  which  must  be  liberally  discounted. 

So  far  as  I could  discover,  it  is  uninhabited  and  un- 
travelled except  w’hen  Indians  cruise  after  the  ducks, 
which  in  March  make  this  region  a popular  resting- 
point  on  their  northward  flight.  On  the  Atabapo  side 
the  forest  is  heaviest.  Along  the  Casiquiare,  for  the 
most  part,  there  appears  the  same  dense,  hedge-like 
growth  reaching  to  the  water’s  edge  as  on  the  Rio 
Negro.  The  truth  is  that  river  fronts  are  much  alike 
over  all  South  America,  and  jungle  country  is  jun- 
gle country,  whether  in  Argentine,  Brazil  or  Vene- 
zuela. From  the  Orinoco  side  the  delta  is  a great, 
flat  waste,  except  in  the  northeast  for  one  more 
example  of  those  conical  rock  familiars  of  this  Road. 

Tradition  says  the  interior  contains  several  la- 
goons or  ponds  of  fair  size,  and  a century-old  map 
I saw  at  Bolivar  (of  which,  thanks  to  the  courtesy 
of  a German  trader,  I secured  the  much  prized 
copy  reproduced  in  this  chapter),  indicates  one  or 
two  of  goodly  area.  On  the  other  hand,  Humboldt, 
whose  investigations  along  the  route  he  pursued 
were  very  thorough  and  much  more  likely  to  be 
accurate,  prints  none  and  speaks  of  none ; it  is  true, 
however,  the  great  German  explorer  did  not  make 
the  traverse,  and,  therefore,  depended  on  hearsay 


INFLUENCE  OF  RAIN  ON  RIVERS 


121 


evidence.  Whether  or  not  there  are  lakes  must 
remain  unanswered  until  a crossing  is  made  of  the  sec- 
tions where  they  are  alleged  to  be.  No  lakes  were 
revealed  by  my  journey,  although  the  cano  did  at  one 
remembered  place  open  out  into  what  might  be  called 
a pond  of  fair 'size;  and  there  were  other  sections  we 
passed  through  which  afforded  lagoon  opportunities 
in  high  water. 

Ponds  in  these  districts  of  little  rivers  or  canos — 
themselves  largely  the  inland  overflow  of  the  main 
stream — are,  in  my  opinion,  entirely  a matter  of  sea- 
son. Land  so  flat  as  this  basin,  with  its  «hief  river 
rising  thirty  or  even  forty  feet  in  three  months,  of- 
fers wide  possibilities  in  this  respect.  The  cano 
through  which  I paddled  in  April,  might,  and  very 
likely  did,  by  the  close  of  the  rainy  season,  swell  to  a 
river.  The  first  time  I ascended  Pimichin  it  was  a 
twenty-foot  wide  canal  sunk  in  a tortuous  granite  bed, 
hampered  with  rock  obstructions  difficult  to  avoid ; on 
the  next  occasion  I paddled  over  a stream  from 
seventy-five  to  one  hundred  feet  broad  without  a 
check.  Toward  the  close  of  the  rainy  season  I have 
navigated  cafios  where,  during  the  dry  weather,  there 
wasn’t  water  enough  to  make  a puddle.  Perhaps  the 
most  notable  example  of  such  variability  is  the  Apure 
River,  which  at  its  lowest  accommodates  very  light- 
draught  trading-boats  with  difficulty,  and  when  full 
floats  easily  and  to  spare  the  large  steamers  that  voy- 
age to  Bolivar. 

Those  familiar  with  the  arroyo  freshets  of  our  own 
Southwest,  which,  within  an  hour,  turn  dry  sand  bot- 
toms into  raging  torrents  you  cannot  ford,  will  appre- 
ciate the  whimsical  streams  of  South  America,  where. 


122 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


however,  fluctuations  are  of  months’  duration  instead 
of  hours’.  Records  must  be  made  at  the  same  site  in 
both  seasons — wet  and  dry,  high  and  low  water — 
otherwise  they  are  almost  worthless,  for  what  one 
observer  notes  in  February  not  at  all  describes  what  he 
or  another  sees  in  June. 

I was  astonished  at  the  width  of  the  cano  we  en- 
tered a short  distance  below  Maroa,  and  at  its  cur- 
rent. Based  on  my  inland  explorations  from  the  bate- 
lao  to  San  Gabriel  the  year  before,  I fancied  the  cano 
slightly  more  than  a canal,  with  a feeble,  if  any,  cur- 
rent. Here,  however,  was  one  but  little  short  of  a 
hundred  yards  wide  where  it  flowed  into  the  Rio 
Negro,  and  with  a current  strong  enough  to  make 
our  paddling  by  no  means  a summer-day’s  jaunt;  in 
truth,  good,  stiff  work  more  fittingly  describes  it — 
though  not  to  compare  with  up-river  labour,  of  course. 
The  changing  colour  of  the  water  also  offered  ma- 
terial for  speculation,  and  amid  the  depressing  un- 
certainty which  enveloped  me,  brought  the  first  hope 
of  our  being  able  to  make  the  traverse. 

One  of  the  phenomena  of  this  land  of  waters  is 
the  retention  by  each  river  of  its  own  colour  without 
diffusion  to  the  very  point  of  actual  contact,  even 
where  the  rivers  differ  vastly  in  volume.  Black 
waters  flow  into  white,  and  white  empty  into  black, 
retaining  their  individuality  up  to  the  very  edge;  a 
visible  line  of  demarcation — on  one  side  white,  on  the 
other  side  black,  unmingled  and  unexplained.  Thus 
the  puny  black  Atabapo  joins  the  surging  white  Ori- 
noco with  no  loss  of  integrity;  the  black  Negro  re- 
ceives almost  at  right  angles  the  odious  white  Casi- 
quiare  without  contamination,  and  itself  empties  into 


THE  MANY  COLOURED  WATERS 


123 


the  Amazon,  not  so  much  as  tingeing  the  mud-coloured 
waters  of  that  monster  river.  Humboldt  reports  on 
the  lower  Casiquiare,  which  I did  not  visit,  a black 
and  a white  stream,  both  coming  from  the  east ; while 
of  the  rivers  flowing  in  from  the  west,  some  are  of 
white  and  some  of  black  water.  Dr.  Hamilton  Rice 
declares  the  upper  Uaupes  to  be  white,  while  the 
lower  section  in  granite  districts  is  black  water,  as  are 
also  two  tributaries,  one  coming  in  on  the  north,  the 
other  on  the  south.  Of  the  number  of  small  streams 
coming  into  the  upper  Casiquiare  from  the  east,  those 
I noted  were  olive. 

These  colours,  which  among  white  waters  range 
from  the  really  white  Branco  through  many  yel- 
lowish mud  shades,  and  of  black  waters,  from  the 
greenish  and  bluish  and  deep  brownish  to  the  really 
deep,  almost  black  of  the  upper  N egro,  are  explained, 
the  scientists  maintain,  by  the  character  of  the  soil 
whence  they  take  their  source  and  through  which  they 
flow.  Those  rising  among  the  decaying  roots,  leaves, 
and  vegetable  matter  of  the  forests  are  the  black,  and 
those  that  have  their  source  and  course  in  the  clayey 
and  alluvial  soils  are  the  white  waters.  Yet  the 
Orinoco  rises  in  the  heart  of  the  forested  mountains 
and  flows  under  their  very  shadow  on  the  north  until 
it  sends  oiF  the  Casiquiare  to  the  south. 

When,  therefore,  after  two  days,  I noticed  the 
alteration  of  our  cano  water  from  a greenish  black  to  a 
yellowish  olive,  I knew  we  were  being  defiled  by  the 
Casiquiare  and  rejoiced  in  its  happy  augury.  On 
the  evening  of  that  same  day  the  patron  attracted  my 
attention  by  waving  his  arms  in  large  fashion  to  the 
west  of  north,  and  saying,  “ Camino  Atabapo  ” ; 


124 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


by  which  I understood  him  to  mean  that  the  source 
of  the  Atabapo  River  was  within  reach  of  a not  too 
far  portage,  and  one  could  cross  in  high  water  and 
so  journey  to  San  Fernando.  Perhaps  my  imagina- 
tion filled  in  more  than  he  intended  to  convey,  for, 
while  the  patron  talked  on  to  considerable  length,  the 
only  other  word  I rescued  out  of  his  patois  was  “ otra,” 
which  means  other — i.e.,  other  road  to  San  Fernando 
de  Atabapo  than  the  usual  one  of  travel  from  Javita 
— as  I interpreted  it.  As  I have  already  related, 
communication  between  us,  limited  to  signs  and  a 
few  words,  was  not  such  deprivation  in  the  canoe  as 
it  had  appeared  on  shore.  When  you  are  bending 
your  back  to  the  paddle  there  is  neither  the  time  nor 
the  inclination  for  conversation — simple  words  and 
a very  small  number  of  them  fulfill  all  requirements. 
“ Go,”  “ stop,”  “ no,”  “ yes,”  “ good,”  “ bad,”  “ eat,” 
constitute  an  elaborate  vocabulary  when  you’re 
hustling  along  by  the  sweat  of  your  brow  from  day- 
light till  dark  with  brief  halts  for  eating. 

Apropos  of  eating,  mandioca  and  dried  fish  made 
the  substance  of  our  daily  fare.  I had  hoped  on  set- 
ting out  to  reach  here  in  March,  when  ducks  are  plen- 
tiful, but  one  cannot  so  reckon  on  the  flowing  road, 
and  I was  far  behind  my  original  schedule,  so  care- 
fully worked  out — in  New  York.  After  my  San 
Fernando  experience  I would  not  have  been  surprised 
to  find  myself  reduced  to  feeding  on  heron — that 
later-season  leathery  tidbit  which  the  Indians  are  fre- 
quently thankful  to  devour,  so  pressed  for  food  are 
they  at  times. 

We  got  no  fish  in  the  cano — we  made  no  attempt 


THE  PESTIFEROUS  CASIQUIARE 


MY  CREW  AND  CANOE  UP  THE  CASIQUIARE 


SIGHT  A JAGUAR 


125 


to  get  any ; I tolerated  no  delay  during  daylight,  even 
for  the  purpose  of  securing  fresh  food,  and  the  rain 
and  the  fatigue  dulled  sporting  proclivities  at  night. 
The  truth  is,  we  saw  no  fish,  and,  come  to  think  of  it, 
I do  not  recall  seeing  fish  in  any  cano,  though  I 
know  of  no  good  reason  why  there  should  not  be,  un- 
less because  of  the  unstability  of  the  stream.  More- 
over, I was  given  to  understand  there  is  not  much 
life  in  this  basin  save  when  the  ducks  visit  it,  but  I 
saw  several  of  the  herons,  and  a busy  member  of  the 
bobtail  gallinule  family,  which  always  amused  me  by 
their  brisk  industry  and  indifF erence  to  other  near-by 
birds.  And  if  I did  not  hear  that  extraordinary 
pumping  of  the  bittern,  I certainly  heard  its  counter- 
feit. Of  frogs  and  bats  there  was  no  limit.  One  mar- 
vels at  the  myriads  of  batrachians  along  the  South 
American  waterways.  On  the  rivers  the  night  clam- 
our beggars  description ; one  must  hear  it  if  he  would 
fully  realize  what  a din  these  lowliest  among  the 
lowly  of  God’s  creatures  can  raise  when  chorusing  in 
countless  thousands. 

Rounding  a bend  on  the  third  day,  with  rain 
beating  upon  the  surface  of  the  water  so  hard  that 
it  sputtered  under  the  impact,  the  patron  sighted  a 
jaguar,  and  stopped  us  in  much  excitement  by  his 
whispered  warning.  Through  the  downpour,  which 
unquestionably  had  deadened  our  noisy  paddling,  it 
was  not  at  first  so  simple  as  it  reads  to  discover  the 
beast  crouching  at  the  water’s  edge  of  a point  sixty 
or  seventy  feet  away.  But  when  I made  him  out 
he  was  a good  mark,  almost  side  on,  and  two  soft- 
nosed  bails  from  a 9-millimeter  IMannlicher  turned 


126 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


him  over  on  the  top  of  the  covered  bank  he  had 
sought  at  the  first  shot,  not  fifty  feet  from  where  he 
was  when  first  seen  by  us. 

The  Indians  were  stirred  to  gleefulness  by  the 
firing,  but  responded  with  exasperating  slowness  to 
my  urgent  signals  for  landing,  as  I could  not  from  the 
canoe  see  the  result  of  my  shots,  and  was,  of  course, 
keen  to  get  on  the  spoor  of  the  quarry.  Finally 
setting  me  ashore,  they  remained  afloat  until  I 
shouted,  “ Bueno!  ” the  local  equivalent  for  all  right. 
Even  though  thus  assured,  they  came  cautiously, 
almost  as  though  stalking  the  big  cat  in  life.  And  I 
must  say  I respected  their  fear,  armed  as  they  were 
with  only  bow  and  arrows,  suitable  enough  for  the 
timorous  capybara,  the  agouti,  or  others  such ; but  no 
more  than  irritating  to  an  animal  so  powerful,  and, 
when  aroused,  so  ferocious  as  the  jaguar.  It  would 
give  me  great  joy  to  watch,  under  such  conditions  and 
equipment,  one  of  that  pooh-poohing  tribe  of  near- 
hunters who  skirt  the  jungle  for  copy  and  at  their 
club  “ smokers  ” make  every  native  apprehension  an 
excuse  for  raillery.  There  would  be  a recanting,  I 
warrant  you. 

Over  all  South  America  the  natives  justly  dread 
the  jaguar,  not  so  much  on  account  of  its  aggressive 
nature,  as  because  of  their  own  unpreparedness  to 
oppose  its  occasional  attack  with  any  hope  of  success ; 
and  in  every  local  mouth  are  the  fanciful,  exaggerated 
stories  of  the  man-eating  propensities  we  find  re- 
counted with  all  faith  and  solemnity  in  tourist  tales. 
True,  it  is  the  most  powerful  and  the  most  savage  of 
the  New  World  cats,  but,  like  all  members  of  the 
family,  from  the  majestic  tiger  to  the  poor  cougar. 


LORD  OF  THE  JUNGLE 


127 


which  men  dog-chase  up  trees  to  then  shoot  or  rope 
in  the  delusion  that  they  are  treading  the  way  of  “ye 
mighty  hunter,”  the  jaguar  will,  almost  as  a rule,  get 
out  of  your  path. 

Purely  out  of  euriosity  it  may  follow  man,  and  in 
rare  cases  may  attack,  either  in  imagined  defence  or  in 
ravenous  hunger;  when  it  does,  it  is  a formidable 
brute  indeed.  Along  the  flowing  road,  where  the 
forests  are  alive  with  many  varieties  of  the  rat  genus 
and  the  streams  run  with  flsh,  the  jaguar  seldom  goes 
hungry.  His  usual  haunts  are  not  far  from  streams 
where  he  catches  fish — scooping  them  out  of  the 
water  with  lightning  strokes  of  his  alert,  powerful 
fore  paw — often  turtles,  and  once  in  a while  the  tapir, 
one  of  the  shyest  animals  in  the  South  American 
forest  and  a very  strong  and  swift  swimmer.  Later  I 
shall  further  pursue  this  jaguar  subject;  suffice  to  say 
here,  that  getting  one  in  this  part  of  South  America  is 
entirely  a matter  of  chance  meeting,  and  being 
equipped  to  act  promptly  and  efficiently.  It  was  in 
this  manner  I seeured  five  of  my  trophies  and  without 
a charge,  save  when  I found  a pair  and  only  wounded 
at  the  first  shot. 

When  I had  thrown  the  fair-sized  and  clearly 
marked  pelt  of  the  cano  trophy  over  the  toldo,  we  re- 
embarked and  started  along  at  a lively  clip,  the  In- 
dians in  extra  good-humour,  whether  because  of  one 
less  jaguar  at  large  to  stir  their  superstitious  frenzy, 
or  merely  that  they  were  an  uncommonly  even-tem- 
pered lot.  The  spirit  of  the  moment  moved  me,  too, 
for  I also  was  light-hearted  because  thus  far  we  had 
progTessed  unimpeded,  and  in  another  day  or  so,  if 
my  figuring  was  not  too  much  at  fault,  we  ought  to  be 


128 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


emerging  upon  the  Casiquiare.  So  with  the  Indians 
expressing  their  hilarity  in  a series  of  fancy-beat 
strokes,  with  which  I tried,  unsuccessfully  more  often 
than  not,  to  keep  time — efforts  that  amused  them  so 
they  laughed  and  postured  like  a lot  of  children — we 
went  along  in  a regular  frolic  of  paddling;  which  is 
always  well  in  a long- journey  canoe,  especially  toward 
the  dragging  days  at  the  end,  for  it  relieves  the 
monotonous  drudgery,  even  if  it  does  add  the  labour  of 
bailing  the  canoe.  Besides,  it  puts  heart  in  the  men 
— more  to  be  desired  than  food  in  the  stomach,  and 
always  harder  to  acquire. 

There  was  little  or  no  change  in  appearance  of 
tlie  country  through  which  we  passed.  The  cano 
banks  seemed  a smaller  edition  of  the  river,  minus  the 
big  trees  and  much  of  the  parasitic  growth,  although 
there  were  spots  as  rank  as  on  any  river — and  always, 
of  course,  we  had  with  us  the  palm  tree  and  the  palm- 
like plants.  W e appeared  to  be  going  through  a flat- 
tish  country,  but  with  no  opportunity,  on  account  of 
this  growth  alongside,  to  learn  much  else  of  its  char- 
acter ; and  as  I was  using  it  merely  as  a means  to  more 
quickly  reach  my  goal,  and  not  interested  in  its  physi- 
cal peculiarities,  I spared  none  of  our  working  hours 
for  inspection. 

The  fourth  day  our  traverse  began  with  a burning 
sun  that  drove  us  to  cover  our  bare  shoulders  for  the 
first  time  during  the  otherwise  wet  crossing,  but  early 
afternoon  again  opened  the  heavenly  flood-gates  as 
we  dug  along  immindful  of  aught  save  holding  our 
pace  to  three  miles  the  hour  and  increasing  when  we 
could.  Thus  plodding  as  night  drew  near,  bringing 
no  evidence  of  the  Casiquiare,  so  far  as  I had  dis- 


THE  SURPRISING  CASIQUIARE  129 


covered  in  my  periodic  searchings  of  the  rain-streaked 
atmosphere ; lo ! we  emerged  upon  a brown-yellow  sea. 
And  maybe  I sat  up  to  take  notice  I Had  we,  by  some 
magic  short  cut,  come  into  the  Orinoco?  If  not,  what 
then  was  this  swelling  river?  Not  the  Negro  cer- 
tainly ; the  colour  answered  that.  Surely  this  strong- 
flowing  stream,  a full  one  thousand  feet  wide  where 
we  saw  it  first,  with  heavily  forested  banks,  could  not 
be  the  Casiquiare — the  canal,  the  merely  larger-dimen- 
sion  cano  I had  pictured  as  the  link  connecting  the 
Orinoco  and  the  Rio  Negro  rivers,  which  Father 
Roman,  the  faithful  and  the  brave,  was  the  first  white 
man  to  ascend  in  1744.  But  such  is  just  what  it  was; 
and  the  joy  of  successful  venture  was  quite  sub- 
ordinated to  the  amazement  with  which  I viewed  the 
scene  so  different  to  the  one  of  my  fancy. 

In  all  my  wilderness  experience  I recollect  no  sur- 
prise equal  to  this  first  look  at  the  Casiquiare.  I could 
not  reconcile  the  fiction  of  my  imagination  with  the 
broad-bodied  and  swirling  tide  which  took  hold  of  our 
canoe  with  a vicious  determination  to  carry  it  off 
down-stream.  That  is  to  say,  I questioned  if  we  were 
really  on  the  Casiquiare — until  the  insects  discovered 
us;  then  forthwith  I was  assured,  for  there  is  only 
one  such  pest-hole  known  to  man. 

If  I wrote  at  length,  frankly,  of  the  insects  of  the 
Casiquiare  as  we  found  them  during  our  four  days’ 
voyage  to  the  Orinoco,  you  would  no  doubt  think  me 
to  be  over-drawing.  I have  been  in  some  places 
greatly  favoured  by  the  insect  hordes — Siam,  Malaya, 
North  Argentine  swamp-land — but  never  have  I en- 
countered such  throngs  as  on  the  Casiquiare.  There 
was  cessation  neither  by  day  nor  by  night.  They 


130 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


came  in  voracious  relays;  the  day  shifts  tilled  what 
the  night  hordes  furrowed  and  fertilized.  iTo  the 
height  of  six  or  eight  feet  above  the  water  they 
formed  a literal  cloud,  denser  at  the  river-bank  by  the 
bushes,  where  we  had  to  travel  close  in  to  escape  the 
force  of  the  current.  “Dope?”  Oh  yes;  that’s  a 
pleasant  figment  of  the  quasi-wilderness  traveller 
which  may  repel  black  flies  and  other  cadets  of 
the  insect  army,  but  to  the  serried  ranks  of  these 
grim  and  bloodthirsty  campaigners  it  is  as  nectar 
before  the  votaries  of  Lucullus.  We  carried  no  dope ; 
the  Indians  knew  better,  and  already  I had  learned 
its  uselessness  in  other  distant  and  less  afflicted  dis- 
tricts of  the  flowing  road. 

The  only  recourse  is  to  bathe  your  swollen  and 
lacerated  face,  neck,  and  hands  with  a bi-chloride 
solution  made  from  the  easily  carried  tablets,  not  as 
a relief  measure,  but  as  a prevention  against  poison- 
ing. And  if  you  would  go  safely  and  with  least  dis- 
comfort, you  must  not  scratch ; you  simply  must  not, 
despite  the  madness  of  the  itching — and  such  madness 
it  is!  The  danger  signal  in  tropical  travel  is  the 
broken  skin,  the  wound  open  to  the  multitude  of  sting- 
ing and  poisonous  creatures.  Put  your  hands  in  thick 
gloves — bags,  if  necessary — but  don’t  make  of  your 
misery  a distress  well-nigh  unendurable,  by  fan- 
ning to  consuming  flame  the  fiery  fluid  deposited 
under  your  skin  by  the  native  “ mosquito,”  which  is 
not  the  mosquito  you  know,  but  a tiny  fly-like  thing 
possessing  incredible  activity  and  a virulence  of  attack 
unequalled  by  winged  insects  the  world  over. 

Parenthetically,  I wish  to  say,  because  I have 
heard  the  contrary  contended,  that  the  Indians  had 


THE  BATTLE  WITH  INSECTS 


131 


to  sustain  their  share  of  sutFering;  not  so  much  as  I, 
for  naturally  their  skin,  always  exposed  when  the 
sun  is  lenient,  toughens,  as  do  the  always  unconfined 
feet,  but  yet  enough  to  give  them  great  trouble. 
Often  I have  seen  ugly  scars  on  native  arms  and  legs 
where  the  eggs  of  a vicious  woodtick  species  common 
to  all  South  America,  or  of  a winged  borer  of  the 
Orinoco- Casiquiare  region,  have  arrived  to  fruition. 
The  insects  of  this  land  accord  no  immunity  Avhether 
the  skin  of  the  wayfarer  be  light  or  dark. 

We  made  long  days  of  our  flight  to  the  Orinoco, 
journeying  from  before  dawn  until  long  after  dark, 
stopping  for  rest  and  alleged  sleep  as  infrequently  as 
nature  would  permit,  because  whether  in  the  canoe, 
under  the  bushes,  or  on  the  closely  grown  bank,  the 
battle  with  the  insects  raged  unceasingly.  As  we 
ascended,  the  heavily  wooded  banks  became  higher; 
at  low  water  they  would  in  places  be  accounted  big 
banks  for  South  America,  where  low  ones  predom- 
inate. With  a current  of  at  least  four  miles  always 
against  us,  once  in  a while  we  came  to  rapid  water 
that  doubtless  becomes  formidable  in  season.  But 
we  did  not  see  a soul  during  the  four  days  it  took  us  to 
reach  the  head  of  the  Casiquiare  ( I concluded  we  had 
entered  midway  of  its  length,  and  praised  Allah  for 
having  escaped  the  other  half).  Yet  it  is  said,  difl^i- 
cult  to  believe  as  it  may  be  for  one  who  has  been  there, 
that  in  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century 
quite  a number  of  settlers  lived  on  the  banks  of  this 
river.  If  any  stray  settler  lives  there  now,  at  least 
in  the  upper  half,  he  must  be  buried  in  the  consuming 
jungle,  for  we  came  to  no  visible  habitation  by  day, 
or  saw  any  light  as  we  paddled  at  night,  as  we  did 


132 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


usually  until  ten  or  eleven  o’clock.  I did  see, 
however,  a few  comparatively  open  spots,  set  off  by 
palms,  but  who,  one  is  driven  to  marvel,  would  live 
on  the  Casiquiare  if  he  could  keep  body  and  soul  to- 
gether in  any  other  place  on  earth! 

N one  of  us  was  too  happy  as  we  bent  to  the  heavy 
paddle  work  under  the  plentiful  rain,  and  every  now 
and  again  the  patron’s  solemn,  even  voice,  like  the 
chant  of  a priest,  broke  the  silence  in  single,  direct- 
ing words  to  the  crew.  He  was  a serious-minded, 
diligent  person,  was  this  patron,  who  squatted  at  the 
extreme  stern  on  a six-by-twelve-inch  extension  over 
the  water,  where  he  handled  dexterously  a blade 
twice  the  size  of  the  others,  alternately  steering  and 
lifting  the  canoe  forward  with  several  successive,  pro- 
digious strokes  that  made  our  straining  efforts  mere 
dabbling  by  comparison. 

The  ways  of  these  men,  less  touched  by  civiliza- 
tion than  any  crew  I had  on  the  road,  interested  me 
greatly.  Yet  how  much  alike  are  the  different  species 
of  the  human  family!  In  Siam  and  in  Malaya  my 
men  built  crude  little  altars  in  the  jungle  upon  which 
to  lay  a bit  of  fruit,  a flower,  a piece  of  their  costume, 
when  they  wanted  to  propitiate  the  gods  for  protec- 
tion against  the  fever  of  some  malodorous  spot,  or 
against  “ the  animal,”  as  always  the  terrible  tiger  is 
called.  In  the  far  north,  when  all  but  famished, 
we  snow-shoed  wearily  back  from  the  Barren 
Grounds,  old  Beniah,  leader  of  my  company  of  Dog- 
Rib  Indians,  was  wont  to  invite  a fair  wind  by  throw- 
ing pinches  of  the  treasured  tobacco  into  the  air  with 
muttered  invocation.  At  the  other  end  of  the  world, 
here  on  the  Casiquiare,  my  men  had  a rather  literal 


AN  IMPRESSIVE  VIEW 


133 


manner  of  casting  their  bread  upon  the  waters  by 
throwing  a handful  of  mandioca  over  the  side  of  the 
canoe,  or  a piece  of  shirt,  always  accompanied  by 
much  palaver. 

All  things,  even  the  most  disagreeable,  reach  an 
end,  and  so  there  came  the  finish  to  our  toiling  up  the 
Casiquiare  when  we  turned  east  from  its  miserable 
confines  into  the  Orinoco,  under  the  shadow  of  Duida 
— the  seven  thousand  foot  lookout  of  the  range  which 
impinges  on  the  upper  Orinoco  from  its  source  to 
the  rock  barriers  at  Maipures.  I have  been  favoured 
with  few  more  impressive  sights,  indeed,  than  that 
which  greets  northern  escape  from  the  Casiquiare. 
In  the  background  loom  mountains,  several  appar- 
ently separate  ranges  of  them — a welcome  change 
from  the  everlasting  forest! — Almost  in  front  of  you  is 
Duida,  one-time  jack-o’-lantern  to  the  fabled  El  Do- 
rado. Entering  the  Orinoco,  the  south  bank  in  either 
direction  is  flat,  but  a short  way  to  the  east  rises 
another  of  the  rock  pinnacles.  Near  this  we  camped 
that  night  of  our  fourth  day  since  entering  the  Casi- 
quiare and  eight  since  leaving  the  Guainia,  and  slept 
delivered  from  the  insects,  which,  though  numerous, 
were  as  nothing  to  what  we  had  just  left. 

In  the  morning,  two  hours’  paddling  took  us  to 
the  one-time  flourishing  but  now  deserted  mission 
of  Esmeralda. 


CHAPTER  X 

ON  THE  THRESHOLD  OF  THE  MYSTIC  LAND 


So  this  was  Lope  de  Aguiarres’  gateway  to  El 
Dorado  1 the  phantom  land  which  lured  the  Conquis- 
tadores  to  those  marvellous  voyages  that  gave  the 
world  its  first  slight  knowledge  of  north  South  Amer- 
ica interior.  Here  from  the  Amazon  he  had  come 
after  months  of  unending  tribulation  and  toil,  look- 
ing for  the  precious  storehouse  tradition  declared  to 
be  guarded  by  one-eyed  men  and  fighting  women — a 
New  World  mating  of  Cyclops  and  Amazons.  Here, 
too,  on  the  line  dividing  the  Amazon  and  the  Orinoco 
basins  at  the  base  of  stern  Duida,  let  us,  before  taking 
up  our  journey,  contemplate  the  swift-flowing  road 
he  searched. 

Starting  in  the  Parima  Sierras  to  the  west  of  the 
Guianas,  it  races  northwest  for  about  three  hundred 
miles,*  when,  turning  abruptly,  it  runs  six  hundred 
miles  almost  due  north  before  heading  straight  east 
toward  the  Atlantic.  Throughout  its  length  of  about 
sixteen  hundred  miles  it  drains  all  of  Venezuela  and 
the  larger  part  of  eastern  Colombia.  Receiving  on  its 
left  (west)  bank,  rivers  great  in  themselves,  like  the 
Guaviare  and  the  Meta  from  the  very  foot  of  the  Cor- 
dilleras, and  the  Apure,  which,  together  with  its  tribu- 
taries, irrigates  northwestern  Venezuela  as  the  veins 


* In  the  absence  of  official  figures  all  these  distances  are 
the  estimates  of  a traveller  without  instruments  for  authentic 
reckoning. 


134 


THE  FAR  REACHING  ORINOCO 


135 


of  a hand;  while  on  the  right  bank  enter  from  the 
east  the  Ventuario,  from  the  south  the  Caura  and  the 
Caroni  that  rise  in  the  Parima  and  Pacaraima  ranges 
— those  disconnected  and  many-named  mountains  ex- 
tending quite  across  this  timbered  fastness  of  which 
Duida  and  Roraima  are  respectively  the  western  and 
the  eastern  outposts. 

All  the  lower  Orinoco,  from  the  sea  to  Atures, 
about  seven  hundred  and  eighty  miles,  is  open  to  tour- 
ist travel.  By  one  of  the  several  channels  of  its  wide- 
open  mouth  excellent  steamers  ply  regularly  between 
Trinidad  and  Ciudad  Bolivar,  two  hundred  and  forty 
miles  up  on  the  right  bank;  the  Meta  affords  a com- 
fortable launch  route  to  within  sixty  miles  of  Bogota, 
Colombia;  the  Apure  in  season  is  navigable  for  steam- 
boats to  its  chief  town,  San  F ernando,  and  practically 
the  year  round  for  launches  throughout  its  innumer- 
able ramifications;  the  lower  stretches  of  the  Caura 
and  Caroni  are  easy  going  for  canoe  or  launch,  but 
are  blocked  by  rapids  and  rocks  in  their  upper  sec- 
tions, as  the  plucky  Andre  discovered  on  the  Caura 
nearly  at  the  cost  of  his  life.  Yet  it  is  by  these  rivers 
— the  Caura  and  Caroni — that  the  Caribs  in  the  days 
of  their  dominance  used  to  ascend  into  the  great 
plateau  to  the  south  and  thence  to  the  Orinoco  via 
the  Ventuario,  and  even  to  the  head  of  the  Branco 
(affluent  of  the  Negro)  via  the  Parima. 

Atures,  just  south  of  the  INIeta,  where  the  insect 
pest  really  begins,  is  the  northern  front  of  the  forty 
miles  of  cataracts  and  rocks,  which,  ending  at  Mai- 
pures,  present  an  effectual  block  to  navigation  and 
divide  the  lower  from  the  upper  Orinoco.  Of  this 
up-river  region  the  Giiaviare  and  the  Ventuario  are 


136 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


the  largest  and  least  known,  each  coursing  through  un- 
explored and  uninhabited  country — though  save  of 
the  one  main-travelled  road  the  same  may  be  said, 
indeed,  of  all  streams  in  this  region. 

Above  the  Casiquiare,  where  the  mountains  loom 
in  the  background,  a number  of  rivers  enter  the  Ori- 
noco from  the  north;  the  Padamo  a couple  of  days 
beyond  Esmeralda;  the  Ocamo  a little  farther  east; 
and  the  Manaviche  still  another  day’s  travel.  Of 
these  Padamo  is  the  largest,  being  at  least  two  hun- 
dred feet  wide  at  the  mouth  when  I crossed  it.  As 
far  as  the  more  broken  Geheta  region  on  the  other 
and  south  bank,  the  country  is  forested  though  flat, 
except  for  the  rock  mount  just  east  of  the  Casiquiare 
and  a group  of  them  about  opposite  the  Manaviche 
River;  beyond,  the  rough  country  draws  nearer  both 
banks. 

To  the  Manaviche  River  the  Orinoco  averages  in 
width  about  a half-mile  and  the  tributary  streams 
come  in  mostly  on  the  right  or  north  bank ; but  above 
the  Manaviche  it  becomes  more  circuitous,  narrower 
by  as  much  as  half  in  places,  the  current  increases 
while  the  mountains  continue  on  the  north,  and  sev- 
eral fairish  streams  enter  from  the  south.  Approach- 
ing the  Geheta  River,  about  thirty  miles  farther  up, 
both  banks  contribute  many  little  streams ; the  waters 
are  much  swifter,  broken  with  rocks  and  rapids,  and 
the  going  becomes  increasingly  difficult  until  you 
reach  the  rock  barrier  about  four  hundred  miles 
from  Maipures,  which  separates  the  known  from  the 
unknown  and  resolutely  disputes  your  way.  Here  is 
a cataract  which  may,  no  doubt,  be  negotiated  when 
the  river  is  at  its  highest,  but  which  I found  so  for- 


AT  THE  PORTAL  OF  THE  UNKNOWN  137 


midable  as  to  necessitate  hauling  the  canoe  around  it. 
At  lowest  water  it  must  present  well-nigh  a solid  wall 
of  rock,  or  a succession  of  cataracts,  which,  though 
increasing  in  rapidity  as  the  river  rises,  doubtless  offer 
less  menace  to  navigation. 

Even  if  not  the  gateway  Lope  the  Wanderer 
sought,  here  is  the  very  portal  to  an  enchanted  area, 
for  although  the  illusion  of  El  Dorado  is  dispelled, 
fable  and  mystery  still  enshroud  this  head-water  coun- 
try of  the  Orinoco,  which  begins  at  this  natural  en- 
trance about  six  days’  voyaging  and  some  one  hundred 
and  twenty  miles  or  thereabouts  southeast  of  Esmer- 
alda. To  this  point  no  insurmountable  difficulty 
to  travel  offers — at  least,  not  in  May;  beyond, 
however,  is  the  terra  incognita.  One  hears  fearsome 
tales  of  this  region  from  Brazilian  to  Venezuelan  end 
of  the  flowing  road,  and  no  Indian  will  enter  it  be- 
cause of  the  vengefulness  these  interior  people  are 
said  to  nourish  against  everybody  since  an  eighteenth- 
century  brutal  onslaught  they  suffered  at  the  hands 
of  an  invading  Spanish  commander.  The  subsequent 
killing  from  ambush  of  venturesome  native  rubber 
explorers  on  two  widely  separated  occasions  strength- 
ened the  general  impression  and  terror. 

To  get  beyond  this  barrier  and  have  a look  at  the 
savages  was  the  sole  object  of  my  trip  to  the  upper 
waters  of  the  Orinoco. 

Esmeralda,  once  the  prospering  end  of  the  Span- 
iards’ known  world  in  South  America,  we  found  to 
be  a dismal  place,  now  practically  abandoned  to  the 
transient  occupation  of  wayfarers  like  ourselves.  It 
is  situated  on  the  least  attractive  site  to  be  found  un- 
der Duida,  which,  because  of  a report  that  it  contained 


138 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


gold,  is  really  responsible  for  the  original  establish- 
ment of  the  mission.  Heaven  only  knows  why  the 
founders  did  not  locate  upon  the  plain  reaching  back 
from  the  river,  where  the  air  is  fresher  and  the  in- 
sects fewer.  But  even  at  its  worst,  it  was  a delight 
after  our  recent  experience,  and  we  made  a quite 
comfortable  camp  near  three  Maquiritare  Indians, 
whom  we  found  already  lodged  on  our  arrival,  while 
I fell  to  speculating  on  the  chances  of  inducing  my 
crew  to  continue  up  river. 

Of  my  cherished  intention  to  go  beyond  the 
Geheta  I had  said  nothing  in  parleying  with  them 
at  Maroa  and  Javita — for  two  excellent  reasons: 
first,  because  I could  not  voice  that  much  lingo  they 
would  understand,  and  second,  I knew  full  well  they 
w^ould  not  start  at  all  if  aware  of  my  ambition. 
I had,  therefore,  named  Esmeralda  as  my  destina- 
tion, with  which  all  Indians  are  acquainted,  for  it, 
too,  at  one  time  was  a centre  of  canoe-building.  I 
was  jubilant  in  securing  men  to  go  so  far — it  was 
more  than  I had  been  able  to  do  on  a previous  en- 
deavour— and  well  satisfied  to  let  the  question  and 
means  of  going  farther  rest  for  the  time  being.  Nor 
did  I hurry  to  the  subject  now  we  had  arrived. 

After  an  afternoon  of  loafing,  eating  and  smok- 
ing, I made  a casual  approach,  saying  I was  going 
up-river  on  the  morrow.  The  patron,  to  whom  I 
addressed  myself,  did  not  at  once  comprehend,  but 
when  he  did  understand  he  spared  no  time  or  emphasis 
in  declaring  he  would  not  go — which,  of  course,  in- 
cluded crew  and  canoe.  Nothing  I could  say,  noth- 
ing I could  offer  from  the  equipment  so  much  ad- 
mired by  them,  made  the  smallest  impression;  argu- 


DESERTED  BY  MY  CREW 


139 


ment,  gifts,  were  equally  futile.  They  were  not  in 
the  slightest  degree  swerved  from  their  intention  at 
any  period  of  the  discussion.  I say  “ discussion  ” for 
lack  of  a more  descriptive  word.  Really  of  discus- 
sion there  was  none.  The  seance  might  better  be  lik- 
ened to  a mute  sign  show  with  detached  Spanish 
words  uttered  earnestly  and  frequently  on  my  part, 
while  on  the  part  of  the  patron  a disheartening  and 
monotonous  “ No  ” or  shaking  of  the  head,  accom- 
panied by  a subdued  and  concerted  hum  of  approval 
on  the  part  of  the  Indians  around  us.  There  was  no 
mistaking  their  feeling  about  the  up-river  district — 
yet  I did  not  relax  in  my  efforts  to  change  their  de- 
cision until  we  put  up  in  our  hammocks  for  the  night. 

In  the  morning  my  late  crew  and  the  canoe  were 
missing.  They  had  unslung  their  hammocks  during 
the  night  and  set  off  for  home,  as  the  quickest  and 
surest  method  of  disposing  of  the  issue  between  us. 
Yet  all  they  took  away  with  them  of  mine  were  the 
sack  of  mandioca  and  the  bundle  of  dried  fish,  which, 
together  with  some  presents  already  given,  consti- 
tuted the  agreed  wage  for  taking  me  to  Esmeralda. 
Notwithstanding  my  plight,  I could  not  resist  ac- 
claiming their  simple  honesty. 

My  predicament  was  no  more  than  I had  half 
expected,  though  the  first  shock  of  it  was  somewhat 
disconcerting.  Not  that  desertion  much  worried  so 
old  a hand  in  wilderness  travel,  but  the  thought  of  be- 
ing thus  put  near  to  a possible  second  failure  gave  me 
a chill  or  two,  I confess,  for  at  the  moment  there 
seemed  no  other  people  left  on  earth  with  me  but  my 
camp  neighbours.  The  Maquiritares,  I felt  certain, 
would  not  listen  to  any  suggested  exploration  beyond 


140 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


their  ken;  for,  though  members  of  this  tribe  oftener 
than  any  other  are  encountered  on  this  bit  of  the 
Orinoco,  yet  they  do  not  go  far  above  the  Padamo,  up 
which  to  some  extent  they  are  in  residence.  Very  few 
Indians  of  any  tribe  get  more  than  a couple  of  days 
beyond  Esmeralda,  and  then  for  only  a fleeting  visit; 
I did  not  see  a permanent  habitation  on  the  upper 
waters  after  I had  separated  from  the  Maquiritares. 

My  neighbours  seemed  unsurprised  at  the  disap- 
pearance of  my  Indians — not  unlikely  they  knew  of 
it  before  my  discovery.  When  I sought  to  communi- 
cate with  them  they  received  me  as  though  to  be  left 
high  and  dry  without  a canoe  on  the  bank  of  the  river 
one  thousand  miles  from  nowhere  were  an  every-day 
happening.  A meal  being  the  first  aid  to  reciprocity 
with  an  Indian,  I spread  the  best  of  my  larder  and  in- 
vited their  attention.  As  we  ate  in  silence  my  brain 
worked  overtime  devising  ways  and  means,  for  I knew 
if  I failed  to  interest  them  in  some  proposal,  they 
would  as  likely  as  not  move  off*  without  me,  in  which 
event  I should  be  marooned  for  a certainty. 

My  best  course,  indeed  the  only  course  open  ex- 
cept sitting  down  to  await  other  stray  Indians,  seemed 
that  of  attaching  myself  to  these  Maquiritares,  wher- 
ever their  up-river  journey  took  them,  abiding  my 
time  and  developing  my  plan  according  to  oppor- 
tunity. It  was  most  important  of  all  that  I get  a 
canoe,  for  without  one  I was  as  a waif  in  a land  where 
none  has  to  spare  and  every  home  is  roofless.  I de- 
cided, therefore,  to  dissemble,  to  say  nothing  about 
going  beyond  the  Barrier,  to  let  them  think  that  with 
loss  of  my  crew  I had  dismissed  such  adventuring, 
and  was  now  just  a traveller  like  themselves  who 


HOPE— THE  TRAVELLER’S  FRIEND 


141 


wanted  a canoe  and  was  \villing  to  pay  well  for  one. 
Giving  them  tobacco  for  cigarettes  and  filling  my 
pipe,  we  smoked,  exchanging  with  difficulty  a few 
comments  on  the  meal  or  the  insects.  Not  a hint  did 
they  get  that  loss  of  my  means  of  travel  was  of  any 
more  concern  to  me  than  it  appeared  to  be  to  them. 
Before  we  slept  in  our  hammocks,  however,  I learned 
they  were  going  “ one  sleep  ” up-river  at  “ sun  up,” 
as  they  expressed  it,  and  would  take  me  with  them. 

I had  won  the  first  redoubt,  and  you  can  picture 
my  happiness  and  relief ; luckily  for  my  assumed  in- 
diff erence,  the  night  concealed  the  elation  which  must 
have  shown  in  my  countenance,  try  as  I might  to 
suppress  it. 

At  the  close  of  the  next  day,  near  the  mouth  of  a 
little  river  coming  in  from  the  north,  called  Gaupo, 
and  the  end,  by  the  way,  of  Humboldt’s  up-Orinoco 
journey,  we  camped  with  five  other  Indians,  two  of 
whom  had  ears  pierced  near  the  top.  B3"  their  com- 
plexion and  ready  converse  with  my  companion  I 
judged  all  the  strangers  to  be  IMaquiritares  save  a 
much  darker,  heavier  featured  one  who  looked  like  a 
Zambo,  as  they  call  the  Indian-Negro  mixture  in 
Venezuela.  And  at  the  night  meal  I was  cheered  as 
though  by  the  unexpected  appearance  of  an  old  friend 
when  he  addressed  me  in  Spanish.  For  the  first  time 
in  weeks  I was  able  to  abandon  the  manual  wig-wag- 
ging which  had  been  my^  chief  means  of  communica- 
tion and  to  embark  upon  an  entire  sentence  in  jungle 
Spanish;  to  understand  and  to  make  m\"self  under- 
stood— almost  to  chatter.  It  was  great  jo3^ 

From  him  I learned  that  my  Indians  were  going 
up  several  of  the  nearby  small  rivers  rubber  hunting, 


142 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


while  the  others  were  seeking  herbs ; that  the 
Maquiritares  live  in  small,  scattered  groups  along  the 
Orinoco  between  Atabapo  and  about  where  we  were 
camped;  that  a few  “ Indios  blancos  ” (white 
Indians)  live  up  small  tributaries  on  both  sides  of  the 
river  hereabouts ; that  all  the  upper  Orinoco  is  “ muy 
malo,”  where  it  rains  most  of  the  time  and  nobody 
lives  and  the  insects  feast  upon  the  few  who  now  and 
then  voyage  above  San  Fernando  de  Atabapo — the 
end  of  habitation  on  the  river;  and,  finally,  that  no 
one  ever  goes  far  up  the  Orinoco  because  the  “ Indios 
bravos”  (savage  Indians)  will  “kill  them.”  A lot 
more  to  the  discredit  of  the  up-country  the  Zambo 
told  me  to  unmistakably  prove  that  he  shared  the 
common  aversion  to  the  upper  Orinoco. 

As  for  myself,  I too  was  an  Indian  by  nature,  I 
told  him,  a genuine  “ Indio  bianco  ” kept  from  his 
native  spirit  heath  by  force  of  circumstance,  and  who 
made  hunting  the  excuse  of  returning  now  and  again 
to  his  own.  I did  not,  however,  say  anything  of  my 
immediate  desires,  except  that  I wished  to  buy  a small 
canoe,  which  he  forthwith  gratified  by  arranging  with 
his  companions  to  sell  me  the  small  one  of  their  fleet 
of  two.  No  doubt  they  discussed  among  themselves 
my  deserted  condition,  but  nothing  of  their  specula- 
tions reached  my  ears. 

In  the  morning,  as  things  seemed  to  be  coming 
my  way,  I determined  to  venture  upon  the  next  step, 
evolved  as  I lay  in  my  hammock  after  the  evening 
talk  with  the  Venezuelan.  This,  in  a word,  was  to 
engage  his  services  for  a “ short  trip  ” and  trust  to  the 
irresistible  lure  of  the  gold  sovereigns  I carried  to 
hold  him  when  finally  we  got  as  far  up-river  as  nor- 


BOULDERS  IN  THE  UPPER  ORINOCO 


A WOMAN  OF  THE  GUAINIA 


THE  SO-CALLED  WHITE  INDIANS 


143 


inally  he  would  go.  The  intention  of  the  Indians  to 
tarry  on  this  little  river  gave  me  excellent  reason  for 
planning  to  go  on,  and  my  scheme  worked  very  nicely, 
especially  as  the  Venezuelan  appeared  not  much  in 
sympathy  with  their  purpose — whatever  it  may  have 
been.  In  fact,  to  borrow  the  expressive  word  of  the 
country,  he  was  not  “ simpatico  ” ; ’twas  my  notice  of 
that  which  first  gave  birth  to  my  scheme. 

Among  wandering  people  with  whom  life  is  a 
constant  series  of  comings  and  goings,  slight  heed  is 
given  to  arrivals  or  leave-takings,  so  we  got  our  stuff 
together  without  comment  and  set  out  upon  our  jour- 
ney up-stream  with  the  Venezuelan  at  the  bow  and  I 
in  the  stern  of  my  newly  acquired  canoe,  which  was 
about  fifteen  feet  long  and  unusually  deep  for  its 
length — an  excellent  quality  for  my  purpose.  Send- 
ing it  along  at  a good  pace,  notwithstanding  the  cur- 
rent, I was  particularly  pleased  with  my  first  paddle 
of  sassafras — a durable,  yellow  wood,  which  glistens 
when  wet  as  though  shellaced.  The  “ crew  ” in- 
formed me  that  during  the  time  of  Esmeralda’s  pros- 
perity canoes  were  made  there  of  this  wood,  and  that 
paddles  are  now  and  again  fashioned  of  it  by  the  Ma- 
quiritares,  who,  however,  appear  to  prefer  the  deco- 
rated, darker,  heavier  ones  of  the  lower  river. 
Through  subsequent  vicissitudes  of  the  flowing  road, 
down  to  the  present  day,  I have  retained  possession 
of  that  tough  and  good  looking  paddle. 

On  the  second  day  after  starting  we  passed  the 
Padamo,  and  in  another  day  and  a half  came  to  the 
Ocamo,  the  river  on  which  live,  so  the  Zambo  said,  the 
reputed  white  Indians,  about  whom  so  much  imagin- 
ary is  uttered — none  more  ridiculous  than  that  their 


144 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


lighter  complexion  is  due  to  the  visitations  of  Dutch 
traders  from  Guiana  a century  or  two  ago.  I have 
never  been  able  to  learn  that  traders  crossed  into  this 
country — the  chances  are  ninety-nine  out  of  one  hun- 
dred they  never  did — but  to  assume  that  a few  strag- 
glers could  lighten  the  skin  of  an  entire  tribe  is  credit- 
ing the  Dutch  with  industry  and  prepotency  unrivalled 
in  the  history  of  man.  If  these  are  the  “ Indios 
blancos  ” of  scientist  tract  and  traveller’s  yarn  at  Rio 
Janeiro  and  Caracas,  Manaos  and  Bolivar,  they  are 
variously  set  down  as  of  the  Guaycas,  the  Guainares 
and  the  Guaharibos  families.  Probably,  they  really 
belong  to  the  Guaharibos,  which  seems  to  comprise 
practically  all  the  Indians  south  of  the  Orinoco  be- 
tween the  Meta  and  the  Guaviare  rivers. 

Their  complexion  is  certainly  the  lightest  on  the 
Road — a bleached  copper,  I should  call  it.  Those  I 
saw  were  taller  and  better  looking  than  the  average 
Indian  of  the  country,  and  friendly  and  honest  so  far 
as  my  experience  goes.  In  small  collections  of  palm 
thatched  houses  they  live  up  tributaries  within  a day 
or  two’s  travel  east  of  Esmeralda,  but  I found  only  a 
wandering  few  individuals  on  the  Orinoco  itself. 
They  are  famous  brewers  of  the  curare  poison,  for 
which,  it  is  maintained,  no  antidote  is  known,  and 
with  which  arrows  and  darts  are  charged. 

I have  no  first-hand  evidence  of  its  powers,  but 
competent  experimenters  with  examples  fetched  to 
the  outside  world  have  given  trustworthy  results  that 
leave  no  doubt  of  its  deadly  power.  A big  bird,  such 
as  the  curassow,  succumbs  in  a couple  of  minutes, 
while  the  largest  members  of  the  rat  family  and  the 
peccary  yield  in  ten;  a drop  in  a mere  pin  prick  is 


BLOW-GUNS  AND  ARROWS 


145 


claimed  to  be  fatal  to  man.  The  formula  of  this 
poison  is  a zealously  kept  secret,  and  the  making  is 
attended  by  much  ceremony  in  guarded  seclusion. 
Outside  knowledge  is  confined  to  such  general  infor- 
mation as  that  it  is  made  from  an  herb  found  up  the 
small  rivers  flowing  into  the  Orinoco,  and  macerated, 
stewed  and  strained  until  finally  drawn  off  to  be 
kept  in  hollow  sections  of  cane.  The  fibre  strung 
bows  used  by  these  Indians  are  very  stiff,  from  four 
to  six  feet  in  length,  and  the  arrows  are  tipped  with 
bone  and  hard  wood;  their  blow-gun  * “ sarabatana  ” 
is  a small,  straight,  hollow  reed  about  seven  feet  long, 
fitted  inside  of  a bamboo  or  palm  sapling,  which  makes 
a firm,  stout  sheath ; the  darts  are  slivers  of  hard  wood 
with  wool-like  butt  made  of  inner  tree  bark.  The 
blow-gun  secures  small  animals  and  birds,  while  fish 
are  killed  with  bow  and  arrow,  which  also  serve  for 
larger  game,  like  the  tapir. 

It  was  still  a big  river,  this  Orinoco,  but  after 
another  two  days  its  breadth  diminished  considerably ; 
meanwhile,  as  anything  interesting  offered,  I made 
it  the  opportunity  for  a halt  and  a smoke.  We  loafed 
along  a good  bit,  and  you  may  be  sure  I treated  that 
Venezuelan  well.  Among  my  slender  supplies 
nothing  was  too  good  for  him.  No  word  of  destina- 
tion was  spoken,  my  thought  being  that  the  nearer  we 
got  to  the  Barrier  before  the  disclosure,  the  easier  it 
would  be  to  win  him;  therefore,  I talked  only  of  the 
birds,  was  constantly  on  the  outlook  for  new  ones  or 


• Though  credited  with  using,  I never  actually  saw  it  in 
the  hands  of  the  Guaharibos.  Dr.  Rice  reports  it  on  the 
Uaupes. 


146 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


for  the  jaguar,  of  which  he  appeared  fairly  well  in- 
formed and  less  afraid  than  most  natives  I had  taken 
with  me.  A rich,  blackish-brown  bird  about  the  size 
of  a dove  attracted  my  attention  by  its  long  whistle 
ending  in  a couple  of  explosive  notes.  Once  I 
heard  several  of  them  answering;  and  there  was 
another  call,  a hoarse  rasp  followed  by  a very  agree- 
able flute  note,  which  frequently  came  to  my  ears, 
though  I never  saw  the  bird.  But  neither  bird  nor 
animal  life  was  plentiful.  Truth  is,  the  upper 
Orinoco  birds  made  slight  impression  upon  me.  At 
this  stage  I was  entirely  absorbed  with  thought  of  my 
plan  which  was  soon  to  be  put  to  test;  later  I was 
w'orking  too  hard  to  pay  heed  to  any  life  save  the 
omnipresent  insect  life  which  at  no  time  or  place  can 
be  quite  disregarded. 

But  two  phenomena  demanded  recognition  of  the 
most  thoroughly  occupied  mind.  The  first  was  the 
rain — Jupiter  Pluvius,  how  it  did  rain,  and  yet  rain, 
day  and  night!  The  oppressive  humidity,  the  enor- 
mous plant  life,  the  tree  trunks  on  the  north  bank 
larger  than  any  I saw  elsewhere  along  the  flowing 
road;  it  seemed  as  if  we  were  passing  through  the 
hothouse  of  South  America.  I could  actually  smell 
the  rank  vegetation.  And  the  insects  were  a good 
second  in  numbers  and  aggression  to  those  of  the 
Casiquiare.  The  other  compelling  feature  of  these 
days  was  the  storms.  Thunder  which  came  peal  after 
peal  down  from  the  mountains  at  the  north  to  rever- 
berate along  our  track,  almost  to  shake  our  canoe  it 
seemed;  lightning  that  flashed  at  the  forest  edge  like  a 
meteor  in  dazzling,  bewildering  zigzags ; and  momen- 
tary gusts  of  wind,  which  were  refreshing  indeed  and 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  SOVEREIGN 


14)7 

a foe  to  the  insects,  but  that  roughed  the  water  to  a 
point  of  upset  for  our  low  craft.  Thus  we  journeyed 
east  with  no  word  of  my  objective.  At  last  the  chal- 
lenge came. 

It  was  on  the  night  of  the  fifth  day  and  the 
Venezuelan  had  said  we  must  turn  back  on  the 
morrow  as  the  “Indios  bravos”  were  near.  The  show- 
down was  due,  and  I was  frank.  I told  him  I 
intended  going  a few  days  beyond  the  Barrier  to 
see  what  there  was  to  be  seen;  that  I wished  him 
to  go  with  me  and  would  pay  him  handsomely — five 
libras — i.e.,  twenty-five  dollars — in  addition  to  the 
“ peso  ” (one  native  dollar)  a day  wage.  I scoffed  at 
the  danger,  declared  the  bad  Indians  a fairy-tale  and 
assured  him  we  should  avoid  them,  anyway,  as  I pro- 
posed to  travel  only  in  the  night.  But  he  was 
a stiff er  proposition  than  I expected.  He  declined 
emphatically,  putting  aside  the  five  libras  as  though 
his  pockets  already  overflowed  with  gold.  Then  I 
offered  him  ten — and  again  he  put  temptation  aside, 
more  slowly,  but  with  apparent  resolution,  much  to 
my  growing  dismay.  In  a situation  less  fateful,  his 
second  refusal  would,  no  doubt,  have  terminated  my 
overtures,  but  I was  not  to  be  deterred,  just  at  the 
door  of  this  land  of  mystery.  To  get  behind  that 
barrier  was  the  purpose  of  the  hardest  trip  of  my 
life.  A buckskin  bag  in  my  pocket  held  my  entire 
capital — forty  English  sovereigns  (two  hundred  dol- 
lars) . Emptying  its  contents  into  my  hand  I divided 
the  shiny  gold  coins  into  two  equal,  glittering  piles, 
and  told  him  one  would  be  his  if  he  went  with  me. 
The  display  appeared  to  fascinate  him;  an  avaricious 
expression  distorted  his  usually  good-humoured  coun- 


148 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


tenance;  and  with  the  feeling  that  I had  won  came 
also  a strangely  repellent  sensation  not  unmixed  with 
anxiety  because  of  what  his  face  revealed. 

Even  after  he’d  agreed  to  go  I was  not  sure  of  him 
until  we  were  actually  on  the  way.  F or  half  the  night 
he  raved,  alternately  declaring  he  would  and  he 
wouldn’t,  that  he’d  be  killed  by  the  savages  if  he 
did, — and  a lot  more  which  I did  not  understand. 
Likewise,  he  revealed  why  he  so  much  wanted  money. 
He  was  a deserter,  he  said,  from  the  Venezuelan 
army,  his  name  Cristobal;  he  had  worked  his  way  up 
the  Orinoco,  finally  joining  the  Maquiritares,  hoping 
to  get  a little  rubber  or  herbs  or  seeds  or  something 
he  could  turn  into  trade  and  so  make  his  way  down 
the  Casiquiare  into  the  Negro  and  on  to  Brazil,  where 
a Zambo  is  in  good  favour,  and  where  he  would  be  safe 
from  the  wrath  of  Castro. 

After  Cristobal  had  quieted  in  slumber,  I stole  into 
the  canoe  at  the  bank  and,  dropping  down-stream 
about  one  hundred  yards,  remoored  and  slept. 

I was  determined  that  another  canoe  and  crew 
should  not  leave  me  in  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XI 
BEYOND  THE  BARRIER 


Apparently  now  reconciled  to  his  lot,  Cristobal, 
in  the  morning,  remonstrated  no  longer,  though  his 
reswung  hammock  had  proved  an  eloquent  telltale  on 
my  daylight  return,  suggesting,  if  it  did  not  actually 
reveal,  frustrated  desire  and  at  least  indorsing  the 
wisdom  of  my  precaution  in  putting  the  canoe  safely 
out  of  reach.  It  began  to  look  as  if  both  of  my  eyes 
were  to  be  kept  busy — one  on  my  crew  and  the  other 
for  “ Indios  bravos.” 

As  we  were,  according  to  my  closest  figuring, 
about  a day  or  two  at  most  from  the  Barrier,  I de- 
cided upon  making  this  camp  our  home  base  for  the 
dash  into  the  unknown,  and  here  to  cache  everything 
not  absolutely  necessary.  It  was  not  a long  list,  for 
my  belongings  were  few,  comprising  all  clothing 
except  what  I stood  in — notebook,  pipe,  tobacco, 
medicine  kit,  camera  (which  had  been  of  little  use  to 
me  at  any  time  in  the  almost  continuous  rain), 
the  dried  fish,  and  coffee.  In  fact,  everything 
except  my  revolver,  rifle — with  ammunition — sheath 
knife,  field-glasses,  watch,  match-box,  enough  man- 
dioca  to  last  for  about  ten  days,  hammock,  tooth- 
brush, a thong  of  buckskin  with  which  I am 
always  equipped  in  the  wilderness,  and,  of  course, 
the  little  buckskin  bag  containing  the  gold  sov- 
ereigns. I chose  the  mandioca  instead  of  the  fish, 
not  that  it  is  more  sustaining,  but  because  the  haz- 
ard of  a cooking  fire  to  disclose  my  presence  was  thus 


149 


150 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


avoided ; and  because  this  native  food  is  so  easily  and 
simply  prepared.  You  have,  as  I think  I have  al- 
ready written,  only  to  put  the  meal  into  a gourd, 
the  dish  of  the  country,  flip  in  enough  river  water  to 
moisten  it — and  there  you  are!  a food  which  tastes 
like  a bran  mash,  if  you’ve  ever  sampled  what  is  ex- 
cellent for  your  horse  now  and  again,  but  one  which 
nevertheless  keeps  you  going.  Along  all  the  flowing 
road  from  port  to  port  it  is  the  basic  provender. 

Having  put  my  note-book,  together  with  camera, 
in  a water-proof  canvas  bag,  and  bundled  the  remain- 
ing mandioca  in  a rubber  poncho — heavy  hot  thing, 
useless  for  the  real  tropical  rainy  reason — I rolled 
the  lot  together  with  the  coffee  and  sugar  canisters 
in  a small  tarpaulin  which  had  cost  nearly  its  weight 
in  gold  at  Para,  and  fastened  it  up  in  the  tree  to 
which  Cristobal  had  tied  his  hammock  the  night  be- 
fore. Then  we  moved  on,  lighter  as  to  bulk,  and  with 
the  cheeriness  gone  out  of  the  Zambo’s  face. 

We  had  several  false  alarms  before  finally,  on 
the  next  afternoon,  a short  way  beyond  a small  stream 
from  the  south  which  I decided  to  be  the  Geheta,  we 
came  to  a series  of  cataracts  and  rock  benches  and 
boulders  extending  across  the  river  as  a boundary — 
a barrier,  the  Barrier  at  last,  the  long  sought!* 

It  surely  looked  a formidable  obstruction,  and  at 
low  water  must  present  in  one  place  practically  a 
rock  wall,  the  stream  cascading  down  its  centre  and 
over  one  edge  with  force  enough  to  turn  a mill.  Our 

* Relying  upon  what  he  was  told  at  Esmeralda,  Hum- 
boldt apparently  errs  in  locating  these  cataracts,  and  under- 
estimates their  distance  from  the  Gaupo,  the  most  easterly 
point  he  attained  on  the  upper  Orinoco. 


IN  A QUANDARY 


151 


first  view  gave  a vista  of  boulders  of  all  sizes  with 
rapid  water  everywhere.  It  didn’t  look  good  to  me 
for  navigation,  so  we  went  as  far  as  we  could  with- 
out risking  an  upset,  and  then  landed  at  the  bank. 
I wished  very  much  to  make  a reconnaissance  that 
I might  the  more  intelligently  choose  the  best  way 
of  crossing,  but  I did  not  dare  leave  Cristobal,  lest, 
overwhelmed  with  fear  at  thought  of  being  at  the 
very  entrance  to  the  dreaded  land,  he  might  stampede 
with  the  canoe;  nor  in  the  circumstances  did  I want 
to  take  him  and  leave  the  canoe.  I believe  always  in 
keeping  your  means  of  transportation — canoe,  horse, 
legs — in  condition  and  at  command.  So  I decided  to 
haul  and  pack  around  overland  and  to  do  so  at  once 
instead  of  awaiting  nightfall,  for  I did  not  believe 
savages  had  been  sitting  on  these  boulders  ever  since 
they  had  killed  rubber-seeking  natives  many  years 
before,  awaiting  and  a-thirsting  for  the  next  victim. 

The  honest  fact  is,  I found  myself  perplexed  as 
to  just  how  much  of  common  report  and  fear  to 
respect.  I could  not  help  feeling  that  the  “ Indios 
bravos  ” tales  were  overdrawn,  although  the  death  of 
the  two  natives  referred  to  seemed  well  established. 
At  the  same  time,  I could  not  ignore  the  general 
feeling  of  the  country.  The  spirit  of  adventure 
ruling  strong  within  me,  I was  ready  and  eager  to 
take  a chance,  yet  the  idea  of  being  potted  from 
the  densely  covered  bank  by  some  one  I could  neither 
see  nor  get  at  did  not  commend  itself  as  a sporting 
proposition,  particularly  as  no  antidote  is  yet  known 
for  the  poison  with  which  the  darts  and  arrows  used 
hereabouts  are  anointed.  Not  that  the  poisoned  ar- 
row route  isn’t  preferable,  if  one  must  die,  to  typhoid. 


162 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


for  instance — I think  it  is;  but  the  sting  of  the  im- 
plied failure  is  sometimes  more  repulsive  than  old 
Death  himself,  and  this  was  one  of  those  occasions. 

As  a provident  and  an  experienced  wilderness 
traveller,  I was  bound  to  feel  my  way  cautiously,  ac- 
cepting the  country  at  its  own  valuation  and  prepared 
for  whatever  might  happen.  If  I did  not  succeed 
in  getting  out,  the  joy  of  getting  in  would  encounter 
a blight  almost  before  it  had  opened  its  eyes  upon 
the  gay  world.  Thus  debating  with  myself  again 
here  at  the  Barrier  as  I had  done  night  after  night 
since  arriving  on  the  hobgoblin  threshold,  I resolved 
to  play  the  spy  entering  enemies’  country — to  travel 
by  night  and  lay  up  by  day.  Meantime  the  first 
business  in  hand  was  to  get  to  the  other  side  of  the 
Barrier  with  as  little  delay  as  possible. 

I did  not  at  all  fear  our  being  heard,  as  the  noise 
of  the  river  drowned  any  we  might  make  and  the 
friendly  rain  veiled  our  movements  against  long-range 
discovery.  But  when  we  had  drawn  the  canoe  well 
up  on  the  bank,  I attentively  scanned  our  surround- 
ings in  every  direction  with  my  glasses,  finding 
neither  signs  of  human  life  nor  evidence  of  a bridge 
of  vines  which  the  Indians  are  said  to  have  con- 
structed in  the  eighteenth  century.  Then  we 
marched  forward,  mostly  carrying  the  canoe  with  our 
dunnage  inside  or  hauling  it  where  possible,  as  walk- 
ing over  the  rocks  was  at  risk  of  stumbling  and  per- 
haps damaging  our  craft.  And  despite  my  belittle- 
ment  of  danger  for  the  benefit  of  Cristobal  I could 
not  drive  out  the  insistent  thought  that  any  moment 
might  bring  notice  of  our  official  eviction  by  way 
of  twang  of  bow  and  smart  of  flesh.  You  cannot  keep 


HAZARDOUS  GOING 


153 


your  imagination  from  soaring  under  such  condi- 
tions, however  your  deliberate  judgment  may  deride 
its  phantom  painting.  Thus  alternately  carrying  and 
surveying,  at  dusk  we  floated  the  canoe  on  the  other 
side  the  magic  line  and  immediately  went  forward, 
paddling  noiselessly,  every  sense  alert,  astonished  to 
find  that  from  first  to  last  we  had  been  only  a little 
over  three  hours. 

Once  well  under  way,  tension  relaxed  and  gave 
opportunity  to  look  around.  I was  surprised  that  at 
this  mid-season  between  high  and  low  water  the 
width  of  the  river  above  the  Barrier  should  be  over 
one  hundred  feet.  Within  two  days,  however,  it  con- 
tracted, becoming  as  narrow  as  seventy-five  to  even 
fifty  feet  for  a stretch,  while  the  shoals  multiplied. 
Going  became  both  slow  and  hazardous,  for,  though 
the  rain  confined  its  fury  chiefly  to  the  morning  and 
afternoon,  easing  up  at  noon  and  during  the  night, 
the  river  remained  dark  and  rock  ridden.  Some- 
times for  a space  we  covered  distance  at  a fair  rate, 
but  for  a great  deal  of  the  time  we  almost  literally 
felt  our  way.  We  kept  close  to  the  south  bank,  ex- 
cept on  a few  occasions  when  obliged  by  shoals  to 
swing  out,  starting  as  soon  as  it  grew  dark  and  stop- 
ping before  daylight. 

These  were  long  “ days  ” full  of  wearying  exer- 
tion, yet  I but  half  slept,  waking  at  the  slightest 
sound.  Our  usual  laying-up  place  during  the  day 
was  under  concealing  bushes  at  the  river  edge  or  in 
the  dense  growth  back  from  the  water;  once  when  a 
rocky  bank  compelled  it,  I drew  the  canoe  under  the 
earth  and  sprawling  root  cover  of  an  upturned  tree. 
Needless  to  say  I never  rested  so  far  away  from  the 


154 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


canoe  as  not  to  be  able  to  reach  out  and  touch  it  with 
my  hand.  Cristobal  always  swung  his  hammock,  as  I 
insisted  he  should,  a little  distance  off — from  fifty  to 
one  hundred  feet,  according  to  the  character  of  the 
bank.  I avoided  arousing  his  suspicion  by  sug- 
gesting the  separation  on  the  ground  that  our 
divided  camp  was  safer  and  more  vigilant — which 
explanation  had  also  the  advantage  of  being  truthful. 
But  I was  keeping  an  eye  on  my  Zambo — that’s  the 
truth — because,  since  crossing  the  Barrier,  he  had 
laboured  so  well  and  so  sympathetically  and  endured 
the  hard  work  and  the  discomforts  so  uncomplain- 
ingly that  I mistrusted  his  zeal ; I could  not  down  the 
doubt,  though  I believe  that  at  this  time  he  was  really 
actuated  by  no  other  motive  than  to  make  the  best 
and  the  quickest  of  a bad  job.  Until  we  got  beyond 
where  he  could  in  a single  dash  escape  to  the  Barrier, 
however,  I kept  one  hand  on  the  canoe  and  rested 
where  I could  command  his  position. 

So  for  five  days  we  rested  and  for  six  nights  we 
paddled,  with  no  indication  of  man  or  of  any  of  his 
works.  But  the  works  of  the  Almighty  envel- 
oped us.  From  across  the  opposite  bank,  the  north 
bank,  the  mountains,  now  nearer,  frowned  upon  us; 
big  bodied  trees  raised  themselves  on  high  to  accent- 
uate the  thick  jungle  beneath;  great  smooth  boul- 
ders bespoke  a relationship  with  those  of  the  N egro ; 
and  the  river  took  on  more  the  nature  of  a mountain 
stream  in  current  and  shoals,  though  maintaining  a 
breadth  never  less,  as  I saw  it,  than  approximately 
fifty  feet.  The  air  was  heated,  the  insects  plentiful, 
and  the  rain  less  frequent,  though  when  it  came  it 
was  in  such  a downpour  as  if  the  heavens  had  opened 


MAKING  READY  TO  CACHE  OUR  BELONGINGS  BEFORE  CROSSING  THE  BARRIER 


CAMPING  IN  LUXURY  AT  ESMERALDA 


A VOICE  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 


155 


— a picture  further  strengthened  by  the  outburst  of 
thunder  and  lightning  which  often  accompanied  the 
flood.  These  storms  were  of  short  duration,  perhaps 
an  hour  at  a time,  but  the  fury  of  them  while  they 
lasted  was  terrific.  I had  heard  of  tropical  storms 
and  I had  witnessed  them  often  during  my  adventur- 
ing in  South  American  jungles,  but  never  have  I 
encountered  any  to  compare  with  those  which  swept 
down  upon  us  on  the  upper  Orinoco  in  the  early  days 
of  May,  1907. 

We  had  completed  our  sixth  long  night’s  pad- 
dling, had  made  fast,  and  were  eating  our  mandioca 
breakfast  before  composing  ourselves  for  the  day — 
when  out  of  the  near  distance  came  an  unmistakable 
human  shout.  Need  I say  it  startled  us?  No  cast- 
away on  a desert  isle  could  have  been  more  so.  We 
turned  amazed,  inquiring  faces  to  each  other — at 
least,  Cristobal’s  bore  amazement,  and  I suspect  mine 
did  also,  for  though  hourly  we  had  been  looking,  lis- 
tening for  just  such  a sound,  the  coming  of  it  on  a 
sudden  without  warning,  where  only  the  river  made 
itself  heard,  was  strongly  agitating — no  less.  It  was 
a great  moment,  for  it  meant  we  had  at  least  come  up 
with  some  of  the  inhabitants  of  this  land;  but  it  was 
also  an  anxious  moment  until  we  had  our  bearings. 
And  then  we  sat  breathlessly  awaiting  a repetition 
that  we  might  locate  the  voice,  for  so  suddenly  had  it 
broken  upon  us  I could  not  be  sure  whether  the  owner 
was  on  our  side  or  the  other  side  of  the  river.  Not 
another  shout  came  to  relieve  our  suspense;  though 
we  waited  minutes  upon  minutes,  no  sound  reached 
our  ears  from  any  quarter  save  the  singing  of  the 
river  directly  below  us.  Somebody,  however,  was 


156 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


certainly  within  call,  and  it  was  up  to  us  to  find  him. 

Making  the  canoe  ready  for  instant  action  and 
signing  Cristobal  to  follow  me,  I crawled  along  the 
bank,  seeking  vantage  ground  from  which  I might 
examine  our  whereabouts  more  closely  than  I could 
from  the  secluded  spot  we  had  purposely  selected 
for  our  day’s  retirement.  But  we  had  chosen  our 
retreat  too  well  for  our  present  need,  the  bush  growth 
on  the  bank  being  so  dense  that  getting  through  it 
without  noise  was  an  unbelievably  slow  and  worri- 
some task.  Finally,  we  reached  a point  where  the 
jungle  opened  so  as  to  offer  a fair  view  of  the  river 
and  its  north  side.  The  eager  first  glance  was  unre- 
warded; only  a jungle-covered  bank  such  as  I had 
been  daily  looking  upon  greeted  my  eyes.  Deliberate 
scrutiny,  however,  uncovered  a small  bay-like  recess 
where,  close  under  the  upper  bank,  seemingly  stand- 
ing on  the  water  and  not  over  seventy-five  feet  from 
us,  was  a nude  Indian  evidently  fishing.  Cristobal 
and  I drew  back  on  the  discovery  to  further  insure 
our  concealment,  and  then  securing  as  advantageous 
a view-point  as  possible  I studied  the  Indian  and  his 
environment  long  and  minutely  with  my  glasses.  Up 
and  down  the  bank  and  back  as  far  as  I could  pene- 
trate, I searched,  while  Cristobal  beside  me  crouched 
silent  in  perturbation  none  the  less  obvious  because 
held  in  check.  Nor  was  the  Zambo  the  only  excited 
member  of  this  exploring  party;  abundant  emotion 
stirred  in  me,  too,  at  sight  of  the  lone  fisherman  and 
the  evidence  he  provided  that  my  long  journey  was 
not  to  be  unrewarded. 

He  was  fishing  with  bow  and  arrow,  after  the 
manner  common  to  all  the  flowing  road  country. 


THE  LONG-SOUGHT  WILD  MAN 


167 


standing  on  what  appeared  to  be  a log  manoeuvred 
along  the  recessed  bank  by  a boy  squatting  astern. 
Thrice  he  shot,  each  time  securing  a fish  and  recov- 
ering his  arrow — the  only  one  he  appeared  to  have — 
and  not  once  did  he  shift  his  position.  Indeed,  the 
two  resembled  bronze  images  graven  against  the 
darker  forest  background.  The  man  held  his  bow  in 
readiness  at  thigh  with  eyes  riveted  upon  the  water, 
and  the  boy  manipulated  his  crude  paddle  so  gently 
you  scarce  could  detect  its  movement.  Small  wonder 
we  had  not  seen  them  at  the  first  hurried  glance.  He 
was  slender  and  tall,  darker  than  the  Maquiritares, 
who  are  rather  lighter  than  the  Indians  of  the  lower 
river;  and,  contrary  to  custom  prevailing  on  both  the 
Orinoco  and  the  Negro  rivers,  his  hair  was  long.  I 
had  not  before  in  South  America  seen  Indians  thus 
wearing  their  hair,  although  told  that  such  is  the 
habit  of  the  savages.  So  far  as  hair  evidence  went 
we  seemed  to  have  fallen  among  the  “ Indios  bravos  ” 
sure  enough. 

Save  for  a narrow  ribbon  of  vine  or  fibre  of  some 
kind  tightly  circling  his  waist  just  above  the  hips 
he  was  without  ornament  or  covering.  As  long  as 
the  fisherman  remained  in  sight,  which  was  perhaps 
for  half  an  hour  or  less,  I kept  my  glasses  on  him, 
giving  little  heed  to  exploration  of  the  bank  behind; 
but  when  he  had  gone,  quietly  disappearing  at  the 
lower  and  inside  end  of  the  recess,  I gave  all  my  at- 
tention to  the  bank  where  he  had  vanished.  So  sud- 
den had  the  picture  come  and  gone,  so  quiet,  it  scarce 
seemed  of  the  realities — yet,  Cristobal  there  at  my 
side,  wide-eyed  and  serious,  gave  it  tangibility. 


158 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


The  jungle  opposite,  which  had  swallowed  our 
Indian,  appeared  to  difF er  not  at  all  from  that  of  the 
usual  heavily  forested  and  densely  bushed  bank  I 
had  learned  to  know  so  well.  No  opening  relieved 
the  shadow  except  where  he  had  disappeared.  Here 
showed  a definite  break  extending  as  far  back  as 
I could  see,  where  individual  trees  appeared  to  stand 
out  from  the  jumble  of  undergrowth  and  swaying 
vines;  while  at  the  water’s  edge  the  brush  thinned,  so 
a low  bank  was  visible.  Cristobal  ascended  a near- 
by tree  in  an  attempt  to  descry  more,  but  he  could 
add  nothing  to  my  meagre  knowledge.  Thus  I spent 
the  entire  morning,  learning  as  much  as  could  be 
gained  through  first-class  field-glasses,  detailing  in 
undertone  to  Cristobal  such  information  as  would 
help  him  the  more  intelligently  to  cooperate  with 
me.  We  each  carried  a mental  photograph  of  that 
opposite  bank  when,  tow^ard  mid-afternoon,  we  re- 
turned to  our  interrupted  and  still  unfinished  break- 
fast, in  the  jungle  back  of  the  canoe. 

There  was  no  sleep  in  camp  that  day,  neither  for 
me  nor  for  Cristobal,  w^ho  seemed  to  have  become  less 
affrighted  and  more  interested;  t^^Ice  he  went 
up  a tree,  once  taking  my  glasses — ^which  he  said 
were  not  so  good  as  his  owm  eyes — but  saw  nothing, 
and  not  again  did  we  hear  a sound  from  across  the 
river.  As  night  drew  on  I slowly  and  carefully  laid 
my  plans  before  the  Zambo,  picking  the  simplest 
Spanish  in  my  vocabulary,  and  reiterating  such  de- 
tails as  depended  upon  his  cooperation. 

Only  one  way  of  seeing  these  Guaharibos  people 
at  short  range  was  possible  in  the  circumstance — viz., 
to  sneak  among  them.  Of  course,  there  was  the  open 


LOOKING  FOR  THE  SAVAGES 


159 


way  of  approaching  with  beads  in  hand,  but  I had 
no  beads,  nor  a crew  that  would  thus  convey  me, 
nor,  in  such  handicapped  condition,  the  wish  to  test 
either  the  verity  of  common  report  as  to  their  blood- 
thirstiness or  the  potency  of  their  curare  poison.  I 
told  Cristobal  that  as  soon  as  night  fell  we’d  paddle 
up-stream  half  a mile,  cross  to  the  other  bank  and 
drop  down  half  the  distance,  where  I would  land  and 
endeavour  to  make  my  way  thence  to  some  point  of 
observation  from  which  I could  get  a near  view  of  the 
savages;  that  my  action  on  shore  would  be  governed 
by  conditions  as  I found  them;  that  he  was  to  im- 
mediately return  to  camp  over  the  same  course  we 
had  come  and  follow  it  again  at  dark  next  night, 
to  where  he  left  me.  When  he  asked  what  he 
should  do  if  I failed  to  meet  him  at  the  given  time 
and  place,  I told  him  with  a show  of  confidence  there 
was  no  such  probability;  I might  be  delayed  a little, 
but  I was  certain  to  arrive.  And  with  great  earnest- 
ness I warned  him  to  carry  out  my  instructions  to 
the  letter,  for  on  his  so  doing  depended  not  only  my 
life,  but  his  as  well. 

He  did  not  like  the  idea  of  being  left  and  wanted 
to  go  with  me  on  shore,  protesting  vigorously  against 
returning  with  the  canoe.  I pointed  out  the  greater 
safety  for  us  both  in  my  outlined  scheme;  that  one 
was  much  the  less  likely  of  discovery  than  two,  and 
that  loss  of  the  canoe  would  be  as  serious  as  loss  of  life. 
Notwithstanding  my  logic,  the  project  was  obviously 
not  to  his  liking  and  he  sulked.  Whereupon  I told 
him  very  plainly  and  with  much  emphasis  that  if 
he  wished  to  reach  Brazil  instead  of  the  Venezuelan 
prison  his  one  way  was  to  earn  the  money  I had 


160 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


promised  him ; and  that  was  possible  only  by  obeying 
my  instructions  promptly  without  deviation. 

With  all  preparations  made  and  plans  decided, 
nothing  remained  but  the  coming  of  night  for  their 
execution,  and  as  darkness  began  its  sudden  descent 
I gave  the  final  touch  to  my  personal  equipment  so 
I might  step  out  of  the  canoe  at  ready.  Most  of 
the  time  I had  been  barefooted  in  the  canoe,  as  I 
have  already  explained,  for  three  good  reasons:  (1) 
always  these  low  dugouts  ship  water,  so  there  is  two 
or  three  inches  continuously  in  the  bottom;  (2)  shoes 
are  a hinderance  to  moving  around  in  such  a craft; 
and  (3)  one  is  so  often  going  overboard  in  a day’s 
journey,  handling  the  canoe  around  points  of  rapid 
water  or  over  rocks,  that  it  saves  the  time  of  putting 
on  and  off  shoes. 

For  this  island  adventure,  however,  I put  on 
shoes,  the  high  canvas  lace  kind  I use  in  the  trop- 
ics, because  I knew  my  feet  were  not  tough 
enough  for  the  going  and  might  betray  me,  I feared, 
into  some  sudden  noise-making  motion  at  a time 
when  soundless  walking  was  imperative.  For  the 
same  reason  I cut  off  my  khaki  trousers  at  just 
below  the  knee,  so  there  would  be  no  surplus 
to  scrape  against  the  brush.  A gray  flannel  shirt 
and  a silk  handkerchief  of  the  bandanna  pattern 
around  my  neck  concluded  my  attire.  I wore 
no  hat,  and  when  I had  need  to  keep  my  long  hair 
from  falling  over  my  eyes  I bound  it  Indian  fashion 
with  the  kerchief.  Such  headgear  is  my  habit,  in  fact, 
in  all  interior  jungle  travel;  a hat  or  cap  affords  no 
protection,  is  constantly  being  snatched  off  the  head, 
and  therefore  a nuisance.  Only  on  the  river  and  in 


READY  FOR  THE  INVASION 


161 


the  sun  did  I ever  wear  one.  In  addition  to  my  usual 
light  trousers  belt,  I wore  another  and  a heavier  one 
on  which  hung  my  knife  and  revolver;  around  my 
neck  I carried  the  little  buckskin  bag  with  its  pre- 
cious contents;  in  my  pocket  some  cartridges. 

Thus,  in  marching  trim  with  every  one  of  our 
few  articles  of  equipment  in  place,  and  all  com- 
pact and  portable,  we  launched  our  canoe  for  my 
first  attempt  to  approach  the  family  circles,  so  to 
say,  of  the  “ Indios  bravos.” 


CHAPTER  XII 
AMONG  THE  INDIOS  BRAVOS 


Fortune  prospered  my  enterprise  by  providing  a 
clear  night  to  help  us  pick  our  way  silently.  For  a 
half-mile  or  a little  more,  we  paddled  up-stream, 
keeping  under  cover  of  the  bank  as  much  as  was 
possible  and  crossing  to  the  other  side  quietly  with 
some  difficulty  on  account  of  the  current  and  the 
rocks.  When  we  had  dropped  down  about  a quar- 
ter of  a mile,  following  every  turn  of  the  shore 
the  better  to  secure  protection  of  its  bushes,  we  halted 
at  a small  opening,  where  I landed  for  the  prelimi- 
nary survey  which  decided  me  to  make  this  my  base 
of  operations.  Cristobal  again  begged  to  be  allowed 
to  accompany  me,  but  I promptly  made  him  under- 
stand the  discussion  of  that  subject  was  closed.  Tak- 
ing the  mandioca  sack  out  of  the  canoe  and  handing 
him  a half-day’s  ration,  I repeated  my  instructions 
for  him  to  go  back  over  our  route,  following  it  again 
without  deviation  when  he  came  to  this  spot  the  next 
night — and  bade  him  start. 

He  went  reluctantly  enough,  and  with  him  went 
my  connection  with  the  outside ; should  he  not  return 
my  position  would  certainly  be  precarious.  Of  course, 
I realized  the  chance  I was  taking — that’s  the  sport 
of  adventuring — but  it  was  not  so  long  a chance  as 
to  make  the  odds  too  heavy  against  me.  I had 
watched  the  man  very  attentively  and  felt  he  would 
stick,  not  on  account  of  loyalty — I didn’t  believe  he 
had  a spark  of  it — but  on  purely  selfish  grounds.  I 


162 


KEYS  TO  THE  SITUATION 


163 


held  the  key  to  the  situation — two  keys,  indeed,  the 
gold  and  the  mandioca.  I knew  he  was  terrified  by 
the  trip  and  had  come  for  the  sole  reason  of  getting 
those  shining  sovereigns  which  were  to  take  him  to 
liberty;  it  was  not  likely  he  would  now  run  away 
from  these,  however  much  he  recoiled  at  the  price 
of  service.  Moreover,  even  if  his  fright  overcame  his 
cupidity,  there  remained  the  question  of  food.  We 
were  a long  way  from  any  habitation  or  the  likelihood 
of  meeting  a travelling  Indian  on  the  river  from 
whom  food  might  be  procured — too  far  for  provi- 
sionless flight;  and  all  he  had  was  the  scant  ration  I 
had  purposely  provided — a single  meal  in  the  small 
calabash.  So  the  odds  were  in  my  favour,  I thought. 
Having  one  or  the  other  of  the  keys,  he  might  have 
put  me  to  the  necessity  of  discovering  if  these  “ Indios 
bravos  ” merit  their  reputation ; but  with  neither  gold 
nor  food — well,  as  I cached  the  sack  by  hanging  it 
on  an  inland  hidden  tree,  I felt  rather  sure  that  if 
Cristobal  did  not  have  another  handful  out  of  it  the 
next  night  it  would  be  through  my  failure,  not  his, 
to  keep  the  rendezvous. 

For  a full  half-hour  after  the  Zambo  had  gone, 
I studied  the  shadows  of  the  forest  over  which  the 
starlight  twinkled  with  slight  effect;  and  when  my 
eyes  saw  independent  of  my  imagination  in  the  weird 
light,  I began  my  furtive  approach  upon  the  recessed 
bank  where  the  Indian  had  fished  in  the  morning  and 
which  I intended  to  make  the  pivot  of  my  explora- 
tions inland.  Ready  now  for  action,  I adjusted  my 
equipment  according  to  habit.  To  facilitate  noise- 
less, unhampered  movement,  I slipped  my  rifle  strap 
over  the  left  and  under  the  right  shoulder,  so  it  car- 


164 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


ried  firmly  on  my  back,  butt  upmost ; my  glasses  were 
slung  so  as  to  seat  securely  under  the  left  arm  pit; 
my  revolver  and  knife  I slipped  to  the  front  of  my 
belt,  one  on  either  side,  right  and  left.  Thus  I knew 
by  experience  I had  everything  under  body  control 
in  worming  through  brush,  with  nothing  at  my  sides 
to  need  watching  or  to  catch;  and  my  hands  free. 

The  section  I entered  was  more  open  than  it  ap- 
peared to  be  from  the  river,  often  the  case  when 
concealing  bushes  of  the  bank  give  no  hint  of  com- 
parative clearings  behind.  Yet  one  unaccustomed  to 
jungle  would  hardly  have  called  it  open  going,  for 
of  plant  and  bush  life  there  was  abundance  and  too 
many  bore  thorns  for  careless  or  painless  walking; 
many  were  the  times  I wished  for  those  discarded 
trouser  lengths! 

I came  to  the  little  bay  much  sooner  than  I ex- 
pected— the  current  had  been  swifter  than  our  calcu- 
lations— but  no  one  was  there  or  any  evidence  of 
habitation  or  canoe.  Circling,  I found  what  in  such 
setting  might  be  described  as  a path,  which  showed 
no  great  usage  and  was  barely  discernible.  Follow- 
ing this  with  utmost  caution,  I passed  through  the 
denser  jungle  edging  of  the  river  into  more  open 
forest,  and  in  less  than  a mile  into  a small  savannah 
with  a group  of  the  familiar,  smooth-looking  boulders 
at  the  near  side.  Turning  my  steps  towards  these, 
with  a view  to  using  them  for  a lookout  point,  I was 
of  a sudden  halted  with  a rising  pulse,  by  voices — 
several  voices! 

Stealing  a dozen  paces  nearer  and  to  one  side,  I 
crouched  in  my  tracks  listening.  Evidently  it  was  an 


FIND  AN  ENCAMPMENT 


165 


abode,  or  at  least  an  encampment,  the  voices  always 
from  the  same  direction — not  over  fifty  to  sixty 
feet  away;  I could  hear  them  distinctly.  Even  more 
distinctly  I could  hear  my  heart  thumping,  which 
calmed  as  it  recovered  from  the  abrupt  arrival  of  the 
novel  situation.  The  talking  continued — now  desul- 
tory, now  flaring  up  in  a sustained  flow,  always  mod- 
ulated, but  never  tuneful.  There  seemed  to  be  three 
or  four  men  and  a woman,  and  I concluded  them 
fixed  for  the  night,  as  they  gave  no  signs  of  shifting. 
It  was  not  late — I guessed  not  over  nine,  though 
I could  not  read  my  watch  dial  and,  of  course, 
would  not  strike  a match.  I remained  where  I had 
crouched  long  after  the  last  voice  had  subsided,  and 
then  retreating  as  I had  come — there  being  no  fear 
of  leaving  tracks  in  such  cover — I reached  the  edge 
of  the  savannah  again. 

Recalling  Cristobal’s  tree  lookout  of  the  day  be- 
fore, I determined  to  try  the  same  method  in  an  at- 
tempt to  see  something  of  these  people.  But  the 
idea  came  easier  than  its  execution.  Trees  were  not 
wanting,  but  either  they  were  festooned  with  innu- 
merable vines,  making  climbing  next  to  impossible,  or 
they  presented  sixty  feet  of  smooth,  clear  trunk  of 
too  great  circumference,  or  one  so  covered  with  para- 
sitic growth  as  to  effectually  block  ascent.  Sidling 
thus  cautiously  in  my  inspection  from  tree  to  tree, 
on  a sudden  I was  rooted  to  the  spot  by  a crashing 
at  my  side — while  visions  of  a whole  tribe  of  im- 
placable cannibals  flashed  before  me — and  almost  as 
instantly  I recognized  the  quick  rustling  and  the 
clacking  of  peccaries.  Nor  was  recognition  of  the 


166 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


true  intruder  much  relief.  Nothing  on  four  feet  is 
more  pugnacious  for  its  inches  than  these  same  little 
brutes;  already  they  had  put  me  up  a tree  in  Brazil 
after  I had  killed  four  of  a herd.  Luckily,  this 
was  a small  company,  and  with  the  tree  as  a shield 
I remained  undiscovered  while  they  busied  round 
a few  moments  before  passing  on. 

At  last,  after  being  stopped  midway  up  one  tree 
by  the  hanging-garden  parasite,  I finally  ascended 
about  forty  feet  of  a gray,  slim,  unencumbered  trunk 
after  the  hardest  bit  of  shinning  I had  ever  expe- 
rienced. Being  just  back  of  the  first  trees  at  the 
savannah’s  edge  it  commanded  an  entire  view  of  the 
boulders  which  showed  indistinctly  about  one  hundred 
and  fifty  to  two  hundred  feet  off.  I made  myself  as 
comfortable  as  I could,  which,  because  of  the  fre- 
quency of  the  limbs,  was  more  comfortable  than  I had 
expected.  Straddling  two  close-growing  ones,  to 
which  I secured  the  rifle,  with  one  arm  over  another, 
and  my  back  against  the  trunk,  I passed  the  buckskin 
thong  around  the  tree  and  my  body  under  the  arms, 
fastening  it  at  my  breast.  Thus  I awaited  daylight, 
getting  several  quite  respectable  cat  naps,  as  the  condi- 
tions for  dozing,  although  somewhat  unconventional, 
were  but  little  less  comfortable  than  in  the  canoe. 

Three  men,  a woman,  and  some  children  made  up 
the  party  camped  among  the  boulders,  and  it  did 
not  take  long  to  record  their  points  of  interests.  Like 
the  fisherman,  who  was  not  among  them,  they  were 
taller  and  slimmer  and  darker  than  the  average  of 
Indians  I had  met  on  the  river  having  no  negro 
blood.  Yet  there  were  no  negroid  characteristics; 
their  noses  were  neither  broad  nor  flat — less  inclined 


HUMANS  WITHOUT  A COOKING  STOVE  167 


that  way,  indeed,  than  many  of  lighter  hue  along 
the  road;  their  hair  was  long  and  coarse;  they  were 
nude  save  for  girdles  of  fibre,  or  something  like 
it,  which  afforded  no  concealment  except  partially  in 
the  case  of  the  woman,  and  were  probably  not  worn 
for  such  purpose.  Of  ornaments  they  bore  very  few; 
the  woman  had  a necklace  of  either  beans  or  small 
teeth — like  monkey  teeth;  and  one  of  the  men  wore 
a neck  ring  which  appeared  to  be  of  vine.  None  had 
ear  pendants  or  nose  rings,  and  there  was  less  of  the 
pot-belly  conformation  so  usual  to  interior  peo- 
ple of  South  America  because  of  the  coarse  and  in- 
nutritions food  they  consume  in  great  quantities. 

Not  until  I had  been  watching  them  all  morning 
did  it  suddenly  dawn  upon  me  that  they  had  no  fire 
or  had  made  one  at  any  time.  Yet  they  had  eaten, 
were  eating  indeed,  when  I awoke  to  the  absence  of 
any  cooking  agency.  The  men  busied  themselves, 
one  making  a bow,  another  scraping  a bit  of  wood 
with  something  seemingly  stone,  as  near  as  I could 
judge,  while  the  third  made  a jaunt  into  the  forest 
beyond  the  savannah,  bringing  back  a bird  which  the 
woman  threw  behind  her  into  what  looked  like  a 
hole  in  the  ground  or  the  rocks.  They  ate  fish  and 
something  vegetable  I did  not  recognize  which  they 
picked  up  and  bit  as  one  might  an  apple.  But  at  no 
time  was  there  indication  of  fire,  and  of  utensils  I 
saw  only  gourds  and  one  larger  vessel  resembling  a 
shallow,  earthen  bowl.  Fingers  were  the  only  forks 
and  spoons,  and  either  a sliver  of  hard  wood  or  bone 
served  as  a knife. 

It  rained  in  the  afternoon,  and  they  all  disap- 
peared among  the  rocks,  but  just  where  and  how  I 


168 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


could  not  see,  so  I decided  to  hunt  another  tree 
from  which  I could  overlook  that  part  of  their  camp. 
Until  dark,  therefore,  I occupied  myself  locating 
such  a one  and  speculating  on  these  hmnans  who 
appeared  to  live  in  the  ground  and  eat  without  fire. 

On  attempting  to  descend,  I discovered  I was 
quite  a bit  stiffened,  but  a little  muscle  flexing  soon 
smoothed  the  machinery,  and  I found  my  way  with- 
out accident  or  incident  to  the  place  of  rendezvous. 
Sure  enough,  there  was  Cristobal  waiting.  He 
greeted  me  as  a dear,  returning  friend,  and 
lost  no  time  in  preparing  the  mandioca  I had 
fetched  from  the  cached  sack;  in  which  repast  I 
joined  him  with  gusto,  for  small  as  his  ration,  mine 
had  been  even  smaller.  I had  taken  none,  the  neces- 
sary water  not  being  accessible  aloft. 

Cristobal  was  full  of  wonderment,  but  could  throw 
no  light  on  what  I had  seen;  he  had  always  heard 
these  savages  lived  “ como  perro  ” (like  dogs)  with- 
out fixed  houses;  as  to  whether  they  used  fire — no 
one  had  ever  been  with  them  to  find  out,  he  said. 

The  second  tree  lookout  was  almost  opposite  my 
first  perch  a little  farther  from  the  boulders,  and  put 
me  in  position  to  solve  the  disappearance  of  the  In- 
dians. They  were  in  caves,  of  which  the  boulder 
group  appeared  to  have  several,  all  shallow. 

This  was  rather  a stupid  day.  The  men  went 
away,  the  woman  and  children  remained  holed.  Late 
in  the  afternoon  I heard  a shouting  across  the  savan- 
nah, inland  w^ay,  followed  shortly  after  by  the  com- 
ing of  two  men  who  fraternized  with  the  woman  un- 
til the  men  of  the  house  returned,  and  then  all  six 
sat  around  eating  the  vegetable  to  which  I have  re- 


GROPING  THROUGH  JUNGLE 


169 


ferred.  The  strangers  differed  in  no  respect  from 
the  others  except  that  one,  a young  man,  wore  a 
necklace  of  small  claws  about  ocelot  size,  with  a 
long  talon  in  the  centre  as  sizable  as  that  of  an  eagle. 

When  the  visitors  departed,  I followed  them  care- 
fully with  my  glasses,  and  as  soon  as  night  had  set- 
tled, hastened  to  my  meal  with  Cristobal,  who  did  not 
arrive  until  after  I had  eaten.  He  had  been  delayed 
in  starting  by  a man  and  woman  and  a little  boy, 
who  remained  until  dusk  at  the  tiny  bay,  the  man 
fishing,  the  woman  digging  into  the  bank  at  various 
places — getting  nothing  so  far  as  Cristobal  could  see. 

It  was  easy  now  finding  my  way  to  the  savannah, 
and  I made  the  detour  to  where  I had  marked  down 
the  visitors  with  not  much  difficulty — but  at  this  point 
I was  puzzled.  Listening  long,  I could  detect  no 
sound.  I felt  sure  the  camps  were  not  widely  sepa- 
rated— that  the  new  one,  if  not  in  a savannah,  would 
be  in  the  more  open  jungle.  It  had  rained  most  of 
the  afternoon  and  was  doing  so  now,  making  the 
denser  woods  so  black  that  to  say  I groped  my  way 
along  would  be  fairly  to  describe  my  progress.  I 
knew  there  would  be  no  voices  to  either  guide  me  or 
arrest  me  before  I walked  on  to  the  strangers,  but  I 
also  felt  that  unless  I stumbled  actually  upon  them, 
any  small  noise,  if  detected,  would  be  ascribed  to 
some  animal — often,  as  I stole  along,  I heard  such 
sounds.  So  I went  ahead. 

Passing  through  this  close  bit  of  forest,  I came 
into  comparative  openness  and  decided  to  find  a tree 
here,  for  it  was  too  dark  to  survey  my  surroundings, 
and  I felt  I must  be  near  the  new  camp.  Daylight, 
however,  revealed  neither  camp  nor  Indians.  I was 


170 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


at  the  opening  of  a kind  of  pocket  dotted  with 
groups  of  trees  and  beyond,  at  the  end,  a hill  rose. 
I could  sweep  practically  the  entire  place,  but  not  a 
sound  did  I hear  or  a thing  did  I see  indicating  hu- 
man life.  All  morning  I used  my  glasses  industri- 
ously— without  reward.  In  disgust  at  my  failure  I 
had  just  about  made  up  my  mind  to  descend  when 
the  cr}dng  of  a child  directly  at  the  right  renewed  my 
interest  in  life.  I couldn’t  see  because  of  intervening 
trees,  but  as  the  sounds  were,  I reckoned,  several  hun- 
dred feet  away,  I hastened  to  earth  and  toward  a 
tree  which  would,  I felt,  overlook  the  sought-for 
camp.  Yet  I was  again  disappointed,  for  I could  see 
nothing  resembling  Indians,  and  the  crying  had 
ceased  before  I got  out  of  the  other  tree.  It’s  no 
speedy  performance  even  to  come  down  quietly  thirty 
to  sixty  feet  of  limbless  tree  trunk  accoutred  as  I 
was — as  to  shinning  up,  tramping  the  northern  mus- 
keg in  spring-time  is  a picnic  beside  it! 

It  seemed  as  if  my  day  was  destined  to  be  a blank, 
when,  shortly  after  four,  I discovered  one  of  the  two 
visitors  of  yesterday  coming  up  the  pocket  carrying, 
as  I saw  when  he  drew  nearer,  an  agouti.  He  passed 
within  one  hundred  feet  of  me  and  stopped  at  a small 
grove  of  large  trees  not  another  hundred  feet  away. 
Forthwith  issued  the  sound  of  voices,  then  a shout, 
and  soon  whom  should  I see  approaching  from  be- 
yond but  my  lone  fisherman.  Evidently  there  was 
another  camp  at  hand,  and  under  cover  of  the  early 
dark,  before  joining  Cristobal,  I located  both  with 
certainty  and  a tree  from  which  to  observe  them  the 
day  following. 

My  fourth  attempt  to  view  the  home  life  of  these 


INDIANS  WEST  OF  LAKE  MARACAIBO  SHOWING  STYLE  OF  BOW  COMMON  TO  ALL  VENEZUELA 


AT  CLOSE  QUARTERS 


171 


homeless  people  began  after  a good  half -night’s  doz- 
ing in  a tree  at  the  jungle  edge.  From  this  elevated 
position  I could  see  both  camps  about  two  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  distant,  each  being  a very  simply  con- 
structed lean-to,  housing,  all  told,  four  men,  three 
women,  and  several  children,  similar  in  feature  and 
undress  to  the  others  I had  seen.  Bows  were  the  only 
weapons  in  sight,  while  the  culinary  department  ap- 
peared to  be  restricted  to  the  gourd-like  vessels ; there 
was  no  fire,  though  I saw  them  eating  in  the  early 
morning  and  at  noon. 

Having  evidently  exhausted  what  they  had  to 
show  in  the  way  of  home  life  from  this  vantage-point, 
I determined  on  descending  for  some  exploration  on 
foot.  Swinging  to  the  far  side  of  the  camp  and  the 
hillside  of  the  pocket  and  working  up-wind,  I discov- 
ered another  lean-to  quite  open  to  view  under  a high- 
branched  tree,  occupied  by  two  men,  one  oldish,  the 
other  young  and  wearing  a neck-band  strung  with 
what  looked  like  parrot  beaks.  He  was  vigorously 
grinding  or  polishing  something  between  stones  which 
now  and  again  his  companion  examined.  Finally,  he 
appeared  to  finish  the  job,  when,  picking  up  his  bow 
and  slipping  on  an  open-braided  basket-like  quiver, 
he  headed  for  the  jungle  practically  at  where  I stood. 

This  was  disconcerting — or  good  luck — as  you 
feel.  I thought  it  a providential  opportunity  to  see 
the  Indian  at  work,  so  moving  to  one  side  behind  a 
great  plant,  I let  him  pass  within  twenty-five  feet  of 
me;  and  before  another  fifty  feet  I was  on  his  trail. 
He  was  looking  for  game,  otherwise  moving  so  cau- 
tiously I could  not  have  kept  within  hailing  distance, 
and  as  it  was,  the  forest  permitted  me  only  occa- 


172 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


sional  glimpses  of  him.  On  one  of  these  he  was 
stringing  a rat  creature  he  had  shot  on  a vine  which 
he  attached  to  his  girdle. 

As  I followed,  the  wild  fancy  of  capturing  and 
taking  him  out  flashed  through  my  brain;  then  sober 
second  thought  queried  how  it  was  to  be  accom- 
plished. I could  not  hold  him  up  because  a rifle 
meant  nothing  to  him;  he’d  probably  think  it  some 
new  kind  of  blow-gun,  which,  together  with  the 
bow,  completes  his  knowledge  of  deadly  weapons. 
The  instant  I showed  myself  he  would  either  lodge 
an  arrow  where  it  would  do  the  most  good — for  him 
— or  raise  an  alarm;  probably  both.  Meantime, 
there’d  be  nothing  for  me  but  either  to  kill  him  or 
skip — neither  of  which  alternatives  pleased  me.  So 
I forsook  the  capturing  alive  idea  and  turned  toward 
my  cache,  as  dusk  was  approaching  and  I had 
strayed  quite  a distance. 

Scarcely  had  I separated  from  the  Indian  when 
a boa  constrictor,  all  of  eight  feet  long,  drew  slowly 
across  my  path,  filling  me,  as  these  unblinking  rep- 
tiles always  do,  with  resistless  desire  to  kill.  It  was 
second  largest  of  the  few  snakes  I saw,  but  often  as 
I stealthily  crept  along  in  the  night  I fancied  I heard 
them — which  was  worse  than  seeing  them.  Really, 
you  see  remarkably  few  snakes  in  the  jungle  consid- 
ering their  multitude ; they  flee  your  path. 

Cristobal  grinned  for  the  first  time  in  a couple 
of  weeks  when  I told  him  this  night  that  the  distin- 
guished exploring  expedition  into  the  Mystic  Land, 
under  the  auspices  of  the  American  with  the  wander- 
lust, had  come  to  an  end,  bringing  harm  to  none  and 


WORK  FOR  AN  EQUIPPED  EXPEDITION  173 


mighty  little  information  of  value  to  any  one.  Per- 
sonally, however,  I felt  amply  repaid  for  my  arduous 
journey.  To  be  sure,  merely  looking  upon  these 
savages  of  such  ill-repute  had  brought  me  chiefly  the 
joy  of  adventure  and  the  satisfaction  of  finally  grasp- 
ing what  I had  struggled  to  reach,  but  for  me  that 
spelled  attainment.  My  mission  was  neither  punitive 
nor  scientific  nor  yet  humanitarian;  the  sole  motive 
force  behind  my  enterprise  was  the  wish  to  “ look  be- 
hind the  ranges  ” — the  lust  of  adventure,  if  you  prefer 
so  to  call  it.  Of  course,  I could  easily  have  learned  the 
real  attitude  of  the  Indians  toward  intruders  and 
might  even  have  brought  out  important  knowledge 
for  the  savants;  or,  on  the  other  hand,  I might  have 
been  compelled  to  defend  myself,  and  frankly  I did 
not  invite  such  an  issue.  I had  no  relish  for  being 
put  to  the  necessity  of  waging  so  uneven  a battle  as 
a magazine  rifle  against  bows  and  arrows  or  blow- 
guns  suggested.  It  seemed  too  much  like  poking  a 
stick  into  an  ant-hill  and  then  swatting  the  insects  as 
they  hurried  forth. 

Some  day,  perhaps,  an  adequately  equipped  and 
numbered  party  with  interpreters  will  penetrate  this 
region  to  gather  scientific  data  concerning  these 
Indians  and  determine,  without  slaughtering  them, 
I hope,  if  they  are  as  eager  for  human  gore  as  now 
freely  claimed  to  be.  My  feeling  is  that  any  attack 
they  might  make  would  be  in  supposed  self-defence 
on  account  of  traditional  dread  of  intruders  rather 
than  because  of  bloodthirstiness.  I find  it  indeed 
difficult  in  a retrospective  view  to  transform  any 
one  of  those  groups  I saw  into  a war  party. 


174 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


I believe  these  Indians  as  a whole  are  an  inland 
people  ranging  over  the  mountains  to  the  north  and 
the  plateau  beyond;  that  like  those  bordering  on  the 
lower  Orinoco  they  make  periodic  pilgrimages  in 
groups  to  the  river  for  the  purpose  of  fishing  or  of 
gathering  the  turtle  eggs  which  lower  down  are  laid 
by  the  thousands  in  the  sand-banks  or  bars  in  the 
very  early  spring.  That  they  had  no  canoes,  as  I 
satisfied  myself  after  repeated  search,  is  convincing 
evidence  of  their  not  being  a river  people.  The 
groups  I saw  were,  no  doubt,  belated  parties,  for 
over  all  this  north  section  of  South  America  the 
Indians  travel  in  this  manner;  there  being  no  such 
thing  as  a tribe  movement  or  a tribal  head. 

At  midnight  of  the  third  night  we  were  back 
at  the  Barrier,  and  by  next  noon  drew  up  at  the  cache 
we  had  left  two  weeks  before. 

And  now  came  the  unhappy  sequel  to  my  other- 
^^ise  happy  adventure- 

Believing  that  to  give  quickly  is  to  give  twofold, 
as  the  saying  goes,  I divided  the  sovereigns  as  we  en- 
joyed our  first  smoke,  telling  Cristobal  as  I handed 
him  his  promised  share  that  I was  much  pleased 
and  intended  to  get  a larger  canoe  for  myself  down 
the  river  and  give  him  the  small  one  for  his  own  jour- 
ney to  the  Negro.  Then  I dropped  the  buckskin  bag 
vdth  its  remaining  gold  into  my  camera  case,  where, 
with  the  day-by-day  note-book  and  pencils,  I often 
placed  it  for  safety  when  laundrying  or  bathing,  as 
now  I did  before  swinging  my  hammock.  When  I 
returned  from  the  river  I was  somewhat  surprised 
to  find  that  Cristobal,  usually  a ready  and  deep 


MY  MAN  TURNS  TRAITOR 


175 


sleeper,  had  not  put  up  his  hammock,  and  I thought 
his  unsolicited  reason  of  wishing  to  smoke  rather 
strange,  for,  if  there  is  any  luxury  of  indolence  a 
Venezuelan  enjoys  more  than  another  it  is  lolling  in 
a hammock  smoking. 

I swung  my  hammock,  but  I remained  wide 
awake,  the  incident  being  just  enough  unusual  to 
arouse  my  curiosity,  the  almost  sub-conscious  guard 
of  the  wilderness  traveller.  I knew  he  was  as  tired 
as  I and  his  stirring  around  puzzled  as  well  as  dis- 
concerted me.  When  he  had  reseated  himself  after  a 
second  trip  to  the  river,  I concluded  it  time  to  in- 
vestigate. Going  down  to  the  canoe  I found  it 
pushed  off  the  bank  whence  I had  drawn  it,  and 
loaded  with  the  entire  cache  1 It  was  as  plain  as  type ; 
Cristobal  intended  to  decamp  with  the  provisions. 

Drawing  the  canoe  again  well  up  on  land,  I re- 
turned directly  to  my  camera-box  and  as  I stooped 
over  it,  Cristobal,  evidently  divining  I was  on  to  his 
game,  bolted  for  the  canoe.  Covering  him  with  my 
rifle  I yelled,  “para!”  “para!”  (stop)  unheeded, 
however.  Not  wishing  to  harm  him,  though  I boiled 
at  the  thought  of  his  outrageous  perfidy,  I dropped 
the  rifle  and  gave  chase. 

Speedily  overtaking  and  tripping  him,  I 
rolled  him  down  the  bank;  but  regaining  his  feet 
he  seized  the  canoe  in  an  endeavour  to  drag 
it  into  the  water.  With  a yank  at  his  arm  and 
a shove  at  his  shoulder  I loosed  his  hold,  throwing 
him  over  again,  and  as  he  got  on  his  feet,  cursing 
and  furious,  he  pulled  a dirk-like  knife  out  of  his 
breech  clout  and  came  at  me.  It  was  a swift  change 
of  relationship  from  the  recent  almost  intimate 


176 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


association.  Dodging  his  first  quick  lunge,  I seized 
my  sassafras  paddle  from  the  canoe  and  as  he  came 
again  I swung  it  edge  on  into  his  stomach,  doub- 
ling him  up  with  a groan.  Another  sharp  rap 
knocked  the  knife  out  of  his  hand,  and  as  he  was 
rather  well  done  I sat  down  at  hand  to  await  the  next 
chapter,  heartsick  at  the  thought  that  the  lure  of  the 
sovereign  could  be  so  strong. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
UNDER  THE  SHADOW  OF  DUIDA 


Notwithstanding  my  justifiable  resentment  of  his 
treachery,  the  eneounter  with  Cristobal  weighed  sor- 
rowfully upon  me  as  I sat  watching  him  come  back 
to  consciousness.  ’Twas  not  fear  of  the  consequences 
of  the  engagement,  nor  remorse  over  the  hurt  I had 
given  him  which  distressed  me,  but  the  thought  that 
one  human  being  could  want  one  hundred  dollars 
bad  enough  to  leave  another  fellow  creature 
foodless  and  boatless  in  a wilderness  where  reseue 
was  an  improbability  and  escape  otherwise  impos- 
sible. Precisely  such  a creature  I had  on  my  hands. 
Safe  return  dovm-stream  in  his  eompany  loomed  as 
more  of  a problem  than  had  advance  beyond  the  Bar- 
rier. Of  the  unfriendliness  of  the  denizens  of  the 
mystie  land  there  was  always  the  chance  that  it  might, 
despite  all  the  talk,  prove  merely  a bit  of  local  tradi- 
tion left  over  from  the  eighteenth  century  confliet 
with  the  Spaniards.  Cristobal’s  attitude,  however, 
admitted  of  no  conjecture;  he  lay  before  me,  a living, 
tangible  thing  that  had  entirely  uncovered  his  pur- 
pose and  the  extent  he  would  go  to  execute  it. 

What  in  the  world  to  do  with  him  puzzled  me 
sorely,  nor  was  the  question  to  be  evaded;  it  had  to 
be  met  and  answered  just  as  soon  as  he  recovered 
from  the  swing  of  my  paddle.  To  maroon  him  there 
with  some  supplies  would  have  been  the  simplest  so- 
lution, as  well  as  the  safest,  and  perhaps,  too,  a bit  of 
poetic  justice;  but  it  was  not  to  my  liking.  It  eame 


177 


178 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


too  near  to  being  a sentenee  of  death  since  we  were  far 
beyond  the  reach  of  occasional  Indian  canoes,  while 
inland  stretched  the  forbidding,  tropical  forest — 
illimitable,  untenanted,  well-nigh  impassable.  I 
could  not  abandon  him ; some  other  course  had  to  be 
devised,  and  I needed  relaxation  and  sleep  that  I 
might  face  the  question  and  the  future  with  a fresher 
mind.  I was  very  tired,  worn  out,  indeed. 

By  the  time  Cristobal  sat  up,  I had  determined 
on  a plan  for  the  immediate  future — that  night — and 
as  soon  as  he  got  on  his  feet,  lost  no  time  putting  it 
in  operation.  No  words  were  wasted  on  the  Zambo. 
I commanded  him  to  hand  over  the  bag  of  sovereigns, 
which  he  did  with  grievous  reluctance,  and  when  I 
divided  the  gold  and  returned  him  half,  he  at  first 
doubted  my  sincerity,  but  seized  the  coins  hun- 
grily as  he  understood  I really  meant  him  to  have 
the  promised  share  for  accompanying  me,  and  stowed 
the  lot  in  the  kind  of  breech  clout  he  wore  always, 
whether  in  or  out  of  trousers.  Briefly,  I told  him  he 
must  obey  me  instantly  on  the  word  or  pay  the  full 
penalty  of  a man  who  has  sought  the  life  of  a com- 
rade. Keeping  him  always  at  arm’s  length  or  far- 
ther, so  he  could  not  spring  upon  me  unawares,  and 
with  my  revolver  loosed  in  its  holster,  we  rearranged 
the  loaded  canoe,  and  then  started  down  river  from 
that  camp  of  unpleasant  memory,  the  Zambo  at  his 
customary  station  in  the  bow  and  I at  the  steer 
paddle. 

Making  great  time  with  the  current  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  river,  we  kept  going  until  dusk,  and  then 
running  to  the  left  bank,  I landed  Cristobal  with 
hammock,  blanket  and  a meal  of  mandioca;  where- 


DECIDING  THE  FATE  OF  A RENEGADE  179 


upon  he  lifted  up  his  voice  in  lamentations,  thinking, 
no  doubt,  I was  preparing  to  desert  him.  He  quieted 
when  I announced  that  as  I couldn’t  bring  myself  to 
abandon  him  as  he  richly  deserved,  and  as  I didn’t 
trust  him,  I proposed  crossing  to  the  other  side  of  the 
river  for  the  long  sleep  I very  much  needed,  and 
would  return  in  the  morning. 

It  was  past  noon  when  I awoke  the  next  day 
(May  31)  to  hear  the  voice  of  Cristobal,  like  the 
wail  of  a lost  spirit,  rising  and  falling  in  a ques- 
tioning call,  which  sounded  weird  enough  coming  up 
out  of  that  vast  jungle  solitude.  Giving  answering 
halloa  of  reassurance,  I floated  the  canoe,  and,  as 
Avith  clear  head  and  steadied  nerves,  after  nearly 
eighteen  hours  of  deep  slumber,  I paddled  over  to 
pick  up  the  Zambo,  the  perplexities  of  the  situation 
seemed  less  formidable.  Disposal  of  the  half-breed 
was  no  nearer  fulfilment,  but  it  harried  me  less. 
After  a night’s  refreshment,  the  only  possible  course 
opened  clearly  to  me — patent  from  the  A^ery  first  to 
one  less  perturbed — viz.,  to  journey  doAAm-stream  un- 
til a practicable  solution  presented.  Hailing  any  In- 
dian voyagers  we  happened  to  meet  farther  west 
and  so  transferring  Cristobal  sounded  feasible,  but 
did  not,  in  the  circumstances,  appear  aa^sc.  The  game 
Avas  not  yet  won,  and  I intended  to  hold  my  vantage 
bj'  plajdng  safe. 

Thus  Ave  began  our  journey  doAAm  the  Orinoco, 
speeding  along  Avith  the  riA^er,  which  was  a good 
six  to  eight  feet  higher  now  than  on  our  up  trip 
and  rising  perceptibly  every  day,  the  Zambo  doing 
his  share  of  work  Avithout  comment,  and  I ever 
ready  for  prompt  action  should  the  need  be.  Of 


180 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


course,  we  stopped  always  before  dark  that  there 
might  be  less  temptation  for  Cristobal  and  more  fa- 
vourable conditions  for  me  in  finding  a camp  on  the 
opposite  bank  after  I had  put  him  ashore;  and  on 
each  occasion  of  our  nightly  separation,  my  late  es- 
teemed crew  swore  eternal  loyalty  by  the  name  of  his 
mother  and  the  Virgin  Mary. 

As  the  third  day  drew  to  a close,  we  arrived  off 
the  mouth  of  the  Guapo,  near  where  I had  found  the 
Zambo  three  weeks  before,  and  Cristobal  asked  that 
I land  him,  as  on  the  small  river  he  had,  he  said, 
“amigos”  (friends) — a rather  unhappy  choice  of 
word  for  him  just  then,  as  it  aroused  my  suspicions 
at  once.  However,  on  deliberation,  I concluded  the 
Zambo  himself  had  provided  the  best  answer  that 
could  offer  of  the  problem  of  what  to  do  with  him. 
He  had  begged  not  to  be  left  at  San  Fernando  de 
Atabapo,  the  nearest  settlement,  where  he  might  run 
into  trouble  because  of  his  army  desertion,  and,  more- 
over, I had  no  wish  to  see  Atabapo  a second  time, 
after  my  unpleasant  previous  visit.  At  the  Guapo 
he  would  be  no  farther  from  his  home  port  than  when 
I picked  him  up,  and  was  at  least  within  striking 
distance  of  food,  so  it  seemed  really  the  natural  con- 
clusion to  his  voyage.  None  the  less,  I thought  it  the 
better  part  of  valour  to  be  cautious,  and  put  in  a little 
above  the  mouth  of  the  Guapo,  where  I left  him  with 
the  twenty  sovereigns  reward  for  going  with  me  be- 
yond the  Barrier,  four  other  sovereigns  as  wages  for 
the  twenty  days  we  had  been  together,  and  three 
days’  supplies. 

Then  out  into  the  middle  of  the  current  again  I 


SODDEN  BUT  HAPPY 


181 


went  on  my  way  alone,  rejoiced  to  a degree  I could 
not  make  you  believe. 

All  that  night  I paddled,  impelled  partly  by  the 
spirit  of  elation  which  possesses  one  when  he  turns 
his  face  homeward  after  successful  adventuring,  and 
partly  because  I considered  it  timely  discretion  to 
get  away  from  this  section  of  the  river  as  rapidly  as 
possible.  By  early  noon  I was  passing  Esmeralda, 
and  two  hours  later  reached  the  Casiquiare.  Beyond 
here  I tied  up  for  a bit  of  rest  and  food  as  well 
as  to  do  a little  in  the  way  of  toilet  making,  which 
for  three  weeks  past  had  begun  and  ended  with  moist- 
ening my  face  and  brushing  my  teeth — and  not  al- 
ways that  much.  So  I was  in  need  of  attention — 
also  I wished  to  put  on  “ the  other  ” shirt  and  the 
only  trousers  to  replace  the  abbreviated  coverings 
which  exposed  me  needlessly  now  to  insect  attack. 
Not  that  the  other  pair  was  dry — nothing  was;  even 
the  cached  stuff  was  saturated.  My  canoe  had  no 
toldo,  of  course,  so  since  starting  up-river  from  the 
Guapo  nearly  a month  before,  there  had  been  no  pro- 
tection from  the  rain;  and  as  the  rain  fell  upon  us 
daily,  sometimes  nightly  too,  for  good  measure,  it  is 
easy  to  imagine  the  sodden  condition  of  my  equip- 
ment. Being  alternately  soaked  and  dried  once  or 
even  twice  on  the  same  day  was  not  an  unusual  oc- 
currence, for  while  once  wet  meant  to  remain  wet 
even  under  a toldo,  yet  the  sun,  when  it  shone,  steamed 
the  moisture  out  of  you  and  whatever  you  wore. 

In  a thinnish,  rather  inviting  spot  on  the  north 
bank  where  the  thermometer  read  82°,  the  aneroid 
five  hundred  and  fifty  feet,  with  Duida  shadowing  my 
left  shoulder,  I stayed  until  late  in  the  day,  bringing 


182 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


my  notes  to  date  from  the  last  camp  on  the  Casiquiare, 
eating,  sleeping  and  sprucing  up  generally,  until  I felt 
once  more  like  a white  man.  Here,  as  I sat,  a small 
flock  of  grayish  birds  with  white  breasts,  about  the 
size  of  a thrush,  flew  near  me,  and  of  two  others 
about  the  same  size  I especially  noted,  one  was 
black  with  a long  spreading  tail  and  one  brown  with 
black  and  white  spots  on  wing  and  throat.  Though 
this  humid  upper  Orinoco  stretch  displayed  compara- 
tively few  examples  of  the  brilliant  tropical  species, 
how  I wished  for  the  knowing  eyes  of  a Frank 
Chapman  on  these  jungle  joiu-neys! 

It  was  lacking  about  an  hour  or  two  of  dusk  when 
I set  out  again  down  river. 

From  here,  Maipures,  the  southern  front  of  the 
great  cataract,  is  about  three  hundred  miles  away. 
The  mountains  on  the  north  which  approach  com- 
paratively near  to  the  river  east  of  Esmeralda  recede 
to  the  west  of  Duida,  and  the  banks  of  the  river  take 
on  somewhat  the  character  of  the  Rio  Negro,  except 
that  on  the  Orinoco  the  background  is  always  of 
mountains.  From  the  Casiquiare  west,  the  south  bank 
on  the  left  is  a great  flat,  and  both  banks  are  heavily 
covered  to  the  water.  It  was  a gloomy  stretch  of 
going  had  I been  of  mind  to  be  affected;  the  truth 
is  I was  hilarious.  Nothing  could  be  sombre  enough 
to  sadden  me,  now;  everything  appeared  gay. 

Keeping  to  the  middle  of  the  river  to  get  the  ut- 
most benefit  of  a swift  and  rising  current,  I made 
excellent  time — at  least  six  miles  the  hour,  I should 
say — and  revelled  in  the  luxurious  ease  of  down- 
stream travel,  with  its  freedom  from  insects,  though 
my  observations  of  the  passing  banks  were  less  in- 


fCc 


JU.  ^-^./i.-i*- 


MAIPURES,  THE  SOUTH  GATE 


THE  GREAT  CATARACTS  OF  THE  ORINOCO  FROM  AN  OLD 
SPANISH  MAP 


AN  ANCIENT  INLAND  ROUTE 


183 


forming  than  in  the  slower  ascent.  It  is  in  working 
up-river  hugging  the  banks  to  avoid  the  force  of  the 
current  that  you  can  better  observe  the  plant  and 
such  animal  and  bird  life  as  you  may  happen  upon — 
and  also  receive  the  merciless  insect  attack  in 
its  entire  fury.  Descending  such  a river  as  the 
Rio  Negro,  for  example,  I doubt  if  one  would  be  at 
all  bothered  by  the  busy  pium,  for  even  on  the  Ori- 
noco, where  the  upper  waters  are  bady  infested,  I 
was  stung  so  comparatively  little  on  the  retreat  as 
to  make  the  experience  unworthy  of  mention. 

In  two  days  I had  done  over  one  hundred  miles 
and  came  to  the  mouth  of  the  unexplored  Ventuario, 
largest  of  Orinoco  tributaries  entering  on  the  right 
or  east  bank,  and  a river  which  interested  me  so 
greatly  that  I had  planned  an  expedition  to  its  source 
the  year  previous,  getting  as  near  as  Atabapo,  only  to 
have  my  efforts  frustrated  by  failure  to  secure  men. 
And  here  I was  at  last  actually  on  its  waters,  but 
unable  to  do  more  now  than  take  a cursory  survey 
of  its  mouth,  for,  in  my  crewless  and  provisionless 
condition,  exploration  was  out  of  the  question. 

Since  the  days  of  the  Jesuits,  those  courageous 
pathfinders,  no  white  man  so  far  as  known  has  passed 
inside  the  Ventuario’s  island-filled  delta.  In  the  lat- 
ter half  of  the  eighteenth  century,  the  Spaniards 
were  active  on  the  upper  Orinoco  as  far  west  as 
Esmeralda,  and  built  a road  inland  so  they  could  from 
the  Orinoco  reach  their  missions  on  the  Caura  via  a 
portage  and  the  Erewato  and  Ventuario  rivers. 
They  were  admirably  adventuresome,  but  pitilessly 
cruel  to  the  Indians,  who,  towards  the  close  of  the 
century,  finally  wiped  out  the  entire  string  of  protect- 


184 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


ing  blockhouses,  extending  over  a hundred  miles,  to- 
gether with  all  the  soldier  defenders  they  could  lay 
hands  on  in  one  night’s  concerted  attack.  So  far  as 
the  white  man  is  concerned,  the  fall  of  those  block- 
houses closed  the  road,  which  since  has  been  reclaimed 
by  the  jungle;  but  the  Caribs  (once  the  flower  and 
terror  among  Venezuelan  Indians,  of  whom  now  only 
a degenerate  remnant  remain)  continued,  as  they  had 
before  the  advent  of  the  brutal  masters  they  helped 
massacre,  to  journey  from  the  Lower  to  the  Up- 
per Orinoco,  to  the  Casiquiare  and  even  to  the  Rio 
Negro,  by  ascending  the  Caroni,  or  the  Caura  to  the 
Erewato  and  thence  by  a several  days’  portage  to  the 
larger  Ventuario. 

They  say  there  are  impassable  cataracts  on  the 
upper  waters  of  the  Ventuario;  perhaps  there  are, 
though  except  for  the  insect  pest  of  the  Casiquiare,  I 
have  never  found  anything  so  bad  as  painted,  espe- 
cially in  South  America,  where  the  conditions  do  not 
invite  the  native  to  adventuring.  At  all  events,  the 
Caribs  passed  this  way,  and  what  Indians  did  two 
hundred  years  ago  white  man  can  do  to-day  if  he  has 
the  needed  incentive.  The  only  white  man  thus  far  in 
modern  times  to  have  attempted  the  penetration  of 
this  rugged  region  from  whose  mountainous  interior 
spring  the  Ventuario,  Caura,  Caroni — great  among 
the  great  tributaries  of  the  Orinoco  which  bounds  it 
on  three  sides,  north,  south  and  west — is  Eugene 
Andre,  who,  about  ten  years  ago  (1902),  essayed 
the  Caura  route  with  a party  of  Indians  engaged  on 
the  Orinoco  and  thereabouts.  Half-way  up  he  lost 
his  canoe  in  the  rapids  and  barely  escaped  to  the 
starting  point  at  the  Caura’s  mouth  after  a hazardous 


THE  SOLEMN  SOLDADO 


185 


retreat  by  raft  and  jungle,  during  which  a couple  of 
men  were  lost  and  the  remainder  of  the  company  all 
but  perished  of  hunger. 

As  the  way  appeared  rather  devious  across  the 
mouth  of  the  Ventuario,  I camped  for  the  night  just 
inside  on  the  south  or  east  bank,  according  to  how 
you  approach,  that  I might  have  at  least  a good  look 
by  daylight  at  the  water  course  which  had  figured  so 
largely  in  my  day  dreams.  But  nothing  to  espe- 
cially distinguish  it  from  other  great  contributaries 
to  the  Road  showed  so  near  the  Orinoco;  there  is  an 
uninteresting  sameness,  in  fact,  to  all  tropical  water 
courses — particularly  in  their  lower  stretches.  Ex- 
cept for  its  islands  the  mouth  of  the  Ventuario  might 
in  general  appearance  answer  for  that  of  the  Meta, 
or  the  Casiquiare,  or  the  Guaviare.  I found  one 
new  thing,  however,  in  several  short  morning  jaunts 
back  from  the  bank,  viz.,  a tall,  coarse  grass  which 
cut  my  ear  like  a knife  and  made  a really  formidable 
obstruction  to  passage.  I knew  the  grass  and  its 
character  well  enough  to  avoid  it,  but  at  the  time 
of  the  encounter  I happened  to  be  following  one 
of  those  solemn  stalking  herons  in  an  effort  to  see  it 
close  by,  and  the  shortest  approach  was  through  the 
grass.  I often  tried,  but  never  did  get  a very  near 
view  of  these  birds,  more  frequently  seen  on  the  lower 
Orinoco,  standing  solitary  and  dejected  like  a sen- 
tinel weary  of  his  job;  the  natives  call  them  “sol- 
dados”  (soldiers).  They  sound  an  unmusical  note, 
and  excepting  the  hoarse  croak  of  the  crocodile  I 
know  of  none  less  pleasing  for  its  volume. 

What  I did  get  a near  and  somewhat  prolonged 
look  at  was  a great  ant-eater,  or  ant  bear  as  some 


186 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


call  it,  which  was  so  busy  with  its  slender  snout 
and  long,  curved  claws  investigating  a find  that  it 
failed  to  hear  me  stealing  along  in  my  endeavour  to 
view  the  soldado.  Such  queer  acting,  unattractive 
brutes  they  are!  The  penned  captives  of  the  Zoo 
give  no  proper  idea  of  their  energy  or  activity.  This 
one  worked  almost  with  the  zest  of  a badger,  making 
fine  subject  for  a photograph  had  there  been  more 
light.  Always  the  same  disappointing  camera  story! 
Never  is  there  light  to  get  anything  in  the  jungle 
interior,  and  when  the  amateur  photographer  comes 
to  the  comparative  clearings  it  is  sure  to  be  raining, 
while  views  along  the  river  are  dreary  and  monoto- 
nous, not  to  mention  the  effect  of  the  steaming  hu- 
midity on  his  films.  Not  one  in  a dozen  of  my  ex- 
posures resulted  in  a recognizable  negative,  though, 
of  course,  the  treatment  of  my  boxes,  what  with  be- 
ing under  the  rain  so  constantly  and  into  the  river 
several  times  from  upset  canoes,  was  not  conducive 
to  results  and  unfair  to  the  film  makers. 

Another  opportunity  for  a nature  photograph 
at  my  camp  here  at  the  mouth  of  the  Ventuario  I 
wish  I could  have  made  the  most  of  was  an  attack 
upon  me  of  large  black  ants,  one-half  to  three-quar- 
ters of  an  inch  long.  You  may  have  read,  as  I had 
in  some  of  the  collections  of  natural  history  misin- 
formation, that  ants  in  their  journeys  en  masse  in- 
variably keep  to  the  ground.  Perhaps  this  is  true 
of  the  species  ordinary  to  civilization,  but  these  of 
which  I speak  swarmed  over  me  in  my  hammock, 
turning  me  out  in  double  quick  time,  for  no  insect 
with  which  I have  had  experience  bites  ^vith  the  ma- 
lignity of  the  biting  ant. 


ATTACKED  BY  BLACK  ANTS 


187 


When  I sprang  out  of  my  hammock,  both  hands 
diligently  combing  and  brushing  and  vigorously 
slapping  my  person  from  head  to  foot,  I landed 
unaware  in  the  midst  of  the  marching  army. 
It  may  sound  ridiculous,  no  doubt,  that  an  active 
pair  of  No.  7 shod  feet  should  be  overwhelmed, 
routed  by  mere  ants,  of  which  hundreds  could 
be  crushed  to  death  at  every  stamp  of  the  foot 
— but  it’s  true,  none  the  less.  Until  I had,  in  jump- 
ing around,  got  out  of  the  line  of  march  of  the  ant 
army,  the  battle  was  all  one  way.  I could  not  kill 
or  knock  them  off  me  fast  enough  to  stand  free  of 
assault.  The  invasion  of  my  hammock  had  begun 
before  dawn,  and  daylight  filtered  through  the  jun- 
gle edge  by  the  time  I finally  escaped  the  invaders, 
if  not  “ bleeding  at  every  vein,”  as  the  hero  patriot 
of  famous  song,  at  least  with  every  vein  punctured 
and  flaming. 

Never  in  all  my  wilderness  experience  did  I 
undergo  such  a thorough  and  painful  insect  “ biting 
up.”  At  broad  daylight  the  ant  army  was  still  march- 
ing, millions  of  them,  it  appeared,  in  a column 
as  much  as  a foot  wide  in  places  and  never  nar- 
rower than  six  inches;  where  I had  fought  them 
they  spread  to  two  feet  over  the  multitude  of  car- 
casses that  littered  the  ground.  The  line  led  to  and 
deflected  round  the  tree  to  which  the  foot-rope  of 
my  hammock  was  attached,  but  a division  of  great 
numbers  filed  up  the  tree  itself,  and,  I was  tremen- 
dously interested  to  note,  many  filed  down  again, 
though  the  returning  ones  seemed  nowhere  near  so 
numerous  as  those  advancing.  My  hammock  line 
made  a popular  sidetrack  for  other  battalions  that 


188 


THE  PLOWING  ROAD 


were  climbing  the  tree  to  which  my  head-rope  was 
fastened;  and  all  the  while  the  main  body  marched 
past  the  tree  in  its  course,  seemingly  undiminished 
or  undismayed  by  either  desertion  or  disaster.  It 
was  a sight  of  which  I never  saw  the  equal,  though, 
no  doubt,  it  is  habitual  enough  in  the  lives  of  these 
determined  and  industrious  insects. 

Swinging  to  the  west  and  into  the  current  where 
it  joined  that  of  the  Orinoco,  I got  under  way  from 
my  Ventuario  camp,  smarting  and  stewing,  with 
plenty  to  occupy  me  until  I had  paddled  beyond  the 
various  swirls  and  counter-currents  of  the  islands 
and  the  meeting  rivers.  When  I had  quite  regained 
the  Orinoco  again,  not  far  to  the  west  of  the  delta 
a couple  of  houses  on  the  right  bank  caught  my  eye, 
and  I wondered  if  they  were  all  that  remained  of 
the  once  thriving  mission  of  Santa  Barbara.  I did 
not  stop,  as  the  settlement  suggested  neither  supplies 
nor  canoes,  and  I was  hitting  the  trail  as  hard  as  I 
knew  how  with  no  delay.  As  I looked  forward  to 
the  estimated  ten  days’  (it  proved  to  be  twelve) 
work  ahead  of  me,  I was  simply  afire  with  a desire 
to  “ eat  ’em  up,”  and  I sang  for  very  joy  as  my 
canoe  sped  down  the  long  flowing  road,  which  must 
have  been  moving  near  to  its  high  water  rate  of  six 
to  seven  miles  the  hour. 

While  the  river  is  said  to  be  at  its  full  flood  in 
August,  and  it  was  now  only  June,  yet  once  in  a 
while  a solitary  tree  on  a point  past  which  the  cur- 
rent raced  close,  told  me  we  were  within  ten  feet  of 
the  average  maximum,  which  ordinarily  ranges  from 
thirty  to  forty  feet  above  the  minimum;  although  on 
my  trip  the  year  before  at  the  time  of  low  water 


ESCAPING  THE  FOREST  DEAD  LEVEL  189 


extreme  marks  were  pointed  out  by  the  Indians 
which  must  have  been  sixty  to  seventy  feet  above 
our  level.  Such  figures  would  probably  denote  a 
freshet;  also  allowance  must  be  made  for  local  pride 
— the  “ boosters  ” are  not  all  confined  to  Los 
Angeles.  But  I have  paddled  through  the  forest  time 
and  again  noting  on  the  great  trees  among  which  I 
navigated  a very  plain  high  water  mark  twenty,  thirty 
and  forty  feet  above  me,  usually  just  at  the  base 
of  the  curiously  wrought  hanging  baskets  of  which 
I have  written,  and  which  so  often  hold  the  exquisite, 
many-coloured  orchid,  the  most  delicately  fashioned, 
I may  add,  of  all  jungle  flora. 

A few  miles  down  the  east  bank,  below  where 
the  Guaviare  empties  its  yellowish  waters  into  the 
Orinoco,  after  receiving  without  stain  the  black  Ata- 
bapo,  I came  late  the  next  afternoon  upon  a falca  and 
four  natives  camped  in  about  the  first  attractive 
spot  I had  seen  on  the  upper  Orinoco.  The  river 
here  is  a full  mile  wide,  with  great  cone-shaped 
boulder-islands  rising  from  the  water,  which  in  sev- 
eral instances  seemed  to  match  similar  rock  monu- 
ments deposited  at  intervals  along  shore.  Inland  an 
occasional  hill  relieves  the  hitherto  doleful  monotony 
of  the  unchanging  forest,  while  far  in  the  background 
lift  the  mountains.  This  is  the  beginning  of  that 
most  picturesque  stretch  of  all  the  Orinoco,  starting 
just  below  the  Guaviare  and  extending  to  the  Meta 
north  of  the  cataracts,  with  the  thickly  covered  peaks 
of  Sipapo  at  the  east  as  its  most  conspicuous  and 
altogether  impressive  sign  post.  Paralleled  by  the 
Sierra  Parima,  this  region  is  in  such  strong  contrast 
to  the  flat  lower  river  as  to  appear  of  another  and 


188 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


were  climbing  the  tree  to  which  my  head-rope  was 
fastened;  and  all  the  while  the  main  body  marched 
past  the  tree  in  its  course,  seemingly  undiminished 
or  undismayed  by  either  desertion  or  disaster.  It 
was  a sight  of  which  I never  saw  the  equal,  though, 
no  doubt,  it  is  habitual  enough  in  the  lives  of  these 
determined  and  industrious  insects. 

Swinging  to  the  west  and  into  the  current  where 
it  joined  that  of  the  Orinoco,  I got  under  way  from 
my  Ventuario  camp,  smarting  and  stewing,  with 
plenty  to  occupy  me  until  I had  paddled  beyond  the 
various  swirls  and  counter-currents  of  the  islands 
and  the  meeting  rivers.  When  I had  quite  regained 
the  Orinoco  again,  not  far  to  the  west  of  the  delta 
a couple  of  houses  on  the  right  bank  caught  my  eye, 
and  I wondered  if  they  were  all  that  remained  of 
the  once  thriving  mission  of  Santa  Barbara.  I did 
not  stop,  as  the  settlement  suggested  neither  supplies 
nor  canoes,  and  I was  hitting  the  trail  as  hard  as  I 
knew  how  with  no  delay.  As  I looked  forward  to 
the  estimated  ten  days’  (it  proved  to  be  twelve) 
work  ahead  of  me,  I was  simply  afire  with  a desire 
to  “ eat  ’em  up,”  and  I sang  for  very  joy  as  my 
canoe  sped  down  the  long  flowing  road,  which  must 
have  been  moving  near  to  its  high  water  rate  of  six 
to  seven  miles  the  hour. 

While  the  river  is  said  to  be  at  its  full  flood  in 
August,  and  it  was  now  only  June,  yet  once  in  a 
while  a solitary  tree  on  a point  past  which  the  cur- 
rent raced  close,  told  me  we  were  within  ten  feet  of 
the  average  maximum,  which  ordinarily  ranges  from 
thirty  to  forty  feet  above  the  minimum;  although  on 
my  trip  the  year  before  at  the  time  of  low  water 


ESCAPING  THE  FOREST  DEAD  LEVEL  189 


extreme  marks  were  pointed  out  by  the  Indians 
which  must  have  been  sixty  to  seventy  feet  above 
our  level.  Such  figures  would  probably  denote  a 
freshet;  also  allowance  must  be  made  for  local  pride 
— the  “ boosters  ” are  not  all  confined  to  Los 
Angeles.  But  I have  paddled  through  the  forest  time 
and  again  noting  on  the  great  trees  among  which  I 
navigated  a very  plain  high  water  mark  twenty,  thirty 
and  forty  feet  above  me,  usually  just  at  the  base 
of  the  curiously  wrought  hanging  baskets  of  which 
I have  written,  and  which  so  often  hold  the  exquisite, 
many-coloured  orchid,  the  most  delicately  fashioned, 
I may  add,  of  all  jungle  flora. 

A few  miles  down  the  east  bank,  below  where 
the  Guaviare  empties  its  yellowish  waters  into  the 
Orinoco,  after  receiving  without  stain  the  black  Ata- 
bapo,  I came  late  the  next  afternoon  upon  a falca  and 
four  natives  camped  in  about  the  first  attractive 
spot  I had  seen  on  the  upper  Orinoco.  The  river 
here  is  a full  mile  wide,  Avith  great  cone-shaped 
boulder-islands  rising  from  the  Avater,  AALich  in  sev- 
eral instances  seemed  to  match  similar  rock  monu- 
ments deposited  at  interA^als  along  shore.  Inland  an 
occasional  hill  relieves  the  hitherto  doleful  monotony 
of  the  unchanging  forest,  Avhile  far  in  the  background 
lift  the  mountains.  This  is  the  beginning  of  that 
most  picturesque  stretch  of  all  the  Orinoco,  starting 
just  beloAv  the  Guaviare  and  extending  to  the  Meta 
north  of  the  cataracts,  Avith  the  thickly  covered  peaks 
of  Sipapo  at  the  east  as  its  most  conspicuous  and 
altogether  impressive  sign  post.  Paralleled  by  the 
Sierra  Parima,  this  region  is  in  such  strong  contrast 
to  the  flat  lower  river  as  to  appear  of  another  and 


190 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


strange  country.  To  me,  it  appeared  the  most  at- 
tractive bit  of  scenery  in  all  South  America  east  of 
the  Andes,  next  to  the  rare  scenic  beauties  surround- 
ing the  harbor  of  Rio  Janeiro. 

Although  the  forest  came  thickly  to  the  river’s 
edge,  back  of  the  strangers’  camp  a savannah-like 
opening  aiForded  inviting  relief  from  the  gloomy 
woodland  and  the  interminable  river  with  its  unvary- 
ing hedge  of  trees.  It  was  a cheerful  range  for  mak- 
ing acquaintance  with  the  perceptibly  increased  num- 
ber of  birds,  which,  as  we  journeyed  down-stream, 
multiplied  more  and  more  in  species  and  numbers,  un- 
til they  reached  the  great  quantity  of  colonies  and  in- 
dividuals which  make  a veritable  birdland  of  that 
part  of  the  Orinoco  where  it  turns  to  the  east — and 
more  especially  of  its  western  bank,  over  towards 
the  bountiful  Apure.  Here  where  we  were,  humor- 
ous looking  toucans,  parrots,  and  herons  of  several 
dimensions  were  the  most  abundant,  but  also  there 
were  the  spoonbill  with  its  delicately  tinted  plumage, 
and  macaws  in  colourings  as  loud  as  their  rasping 
voices.  So  long  as  the  da^dight  lasted  the  screaming 
parrots  were  always  with  us  (to  the  very  end  of  the 
river),  and  night  brought,  with  an  increased  supply 
of  insects,  a curious  drumming  fish  I had  never  be- 
fore heard,  which  makes  a noise  exactly  like  the 
humming  telegraph  wire — you  have  no  doubt  heard 
bj’-  listening  at  the  wire-strung  pole. 

In  joining  this  party  I had  hoped  to  induce  one 
of  them  to  serve  me  as  a crew,  but  they  proved  to 
be  on  their  way  to  a small  settlement  below  the  Meta 
called  Urbana,  for  trade,  and  while  none  would  en- 
gage to  accompany  me,  they  offered  to  carry  me  to 


AT  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  ENCROACHING  JUNGLE 


BEAUTY  UNADORNED  ON  THE  ORINOCO 


NEW  FRIENDS  AND  A HELPING  HAND  191 


their  destination  for  a sovereign.  As  I knew  I could 
not  get  my  canoe  across  the  great  cataracts  from 
Maipures  to  Atures  without  help,  which  was  not  to 
be  had  on  the  ground,  I accepted  their  proposal, 
abandoning  the  little  dugout  which  had  proved  so 
serviceable,  after  transferring  my  now  very  small 
amount  of  luggage  to  their  thirty-foot,  toldo-topped 
boat.  They  had  a good  supply  of  cassava,  the  na- 
tive bread,  which  was  a treat  indeed  after  so  con- 
stant a diet  of  straight  dried  fish  and  mandioca,  and 
a plenty  of  the  local  dried  meat.  The  meat  did  not 
tempt  me,  being  already  familiar  with  the  jaw- 
wearying  Venezuelan  variety  which  at  its  best  is  about 
the  thickness  of  a knife  blade  and  with  all  the  unctu- 
ous succulence  of  leather. 

My  new  friends  were  extremely  curious  as  to  my 
journeying,  whence  I had  come  and  why  I was  alone, 
what  I was  doing;  but  appeared  satisfied  with  my 
statement  of  being  a hunter  who  had  come  from 
Maroa.  Hunting  to  the  average  native  is  a sealed 
book  opened  only  by  the  “ Inglis  ” or  the  “ Ameri- 
cano ” — whose  endurance  of  privations  and  long,  hard 
trips  for  the  mere  purpose  of  shooting  a beast  or 
seeing  a few  birds  they  cannot  at  all  comprehend. 

Near  by  under  the  bank  that  night,  a crocodile 
croaked  at  intervals  like  a tremendous  basso  profundo 
frog,  and  the  insects  raided  heavily  as  if  to  warn  us 
that  we  were  nearing  the  great  rock  bulwark  which 
marks  where  the  Sierras  cross  the  river,  thus  dividing 
it  into  Lower  and  Upper  Orinoco. 

At  noon  on  the  morrow  we  landed  at  Maipures, 
the  southern  face  of  the  crossing. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
CROSSING  THE  GREAT  CATARACTS 


F orty  miles  separate  Maipm’es  on  the  upper 
Orinoco  from  Atures  on  the  lower  Orinoco,  and 
every  mile  of  it  is  filled  during  the  wet  season  with 
fever,  and  always  with  insects  and  scenic  splendour. 
Sending  up  a roar  at  either  end  which  may  be  heard 
a mile  or  more,  the  river,  throughout  its  picturesque 
course,  plunges  and  whirls  and  flattens,  expands 
and  contracts,  according  to  the  character  of  the  ob- 
stacle impeding  its  progress.  Occasionally  narrow- 
ing to  a couple  of  hundred  feet,  it  lashes  itself  into 
one  long  stretch  of  foam  and  vapour  as  it  riots  be- 
tween rock-lined  shores;  again  it  speeds  along  be- 
tween wood-covered  banks  in  comparative  calm.  In 
some  spots  it  presents  an  unbroken  surface;  in 
others,  thickly  placed  rock  islands  leave  turbulent 
channels  scarcely  twenty  feet  wide.  Often  on  its 
banks  a palm  of  unusual  height  and  beauty  lifts  its 
feathery  top  above  the  surrounding  jungle,  and  every 
once  in  a while  conical  “ cerros  ” (mounts)  rise  from 
fifty  to  two  hundred  feet,  now  out  of  forest,  again 
out  of  rock-covered  meadow,  standing  isolated  or  in 
groups  as  last  monuments  of  the  crossing  sierras 
through  which  the  tumultuous  river  has  literally 
carved  a thoroughfare. 

Ever  in  the  background  may  be  seen  one  of  the 
mountain  spurs  which  the  Parimas  send  off*  in  sev- 
eral directions  under  varjdng  names  from  the  centre 
of  that  immense  region  bounded  on  three  of  its  sides 


192 


THE  PEST  OF  INSECTS 


193 


by  the  Orinoco,  and  whence  rise  the  Ventuario,  the 
Caura,  and  the  Caroni  rivers.  The  mountains  close 
in  on  the  south  entrance  to  this  land  pass,  while  at 
the  north  gate  at  Atures,  a lone  but  lofty  cerro  rises 
out  of  the  plain  to  the  west.  It  is  a scene  of  rare 
charm,  unique  in  nature’s  offerings  the  world  over. 
The  pity  that  also  it  should  be  a notorious  pest  hole! 
for  here  the  ascending  voyager  comes  first  to  know  a 
real  plague  of  insects.  He  makes  painful  acquaint- 
ance with  the  “ zancudo,”  the  giant  gnat  despoiler  of 
the  night,  and  with  that  vicious  daylight  worker,  the 
little  “ jen-jen,”  a venomous  fly  relative  of  the  Bra- 
zilian pium.  The  “ calentura,”  as  the  fever  is  called, 
also  adds  danger  to  discomfort;  while  the  withering 
humidity  incubates  the  poison  deposited  in  suscep- 
tible veins.  Although  no  hotter  during  the  day  than 
elsewhere  on  the  Road  (the  average  of  my  thermom- 
eter in  February-March  was  88°  to  90°,  and  in  June 
95°),  the  nights  are  excessively  muggy,  and  as  on  the 
river  beyond  Esmeralda,  unrelieved  by  any  breeze. 
But  of  local  evils,  Zancudo  & Co.  are,  to  my  think- 
ing, the  most  formidable;  you  may  escape  the  fever, 
but  the  jen-jen  and  its  night-shift  are  inevitable.  On 
these  two  insects  rest  all  odium  for  the  distracting 
annoyances  which  beset  the  wayfarer  on  the  portage. 

On  each  of  my  three  crossings,  some  of  the  ac- 
companying party  succumbed  to  the  fever,  but  on 
no  occasion  was  I touched,  though  I am  bound  to 
say  I regard  myself  somewhat  immune  after  my 
extended  experience.  I have,  it  is  true,  had  a day 
or  two  of  feeling  quite  seedy,  but  never  been  com- 
pelled to  stop  in  camp  an  hour  during  my  jungle 
adventuring,  either  in  Asia  or  South  America,  or 


194 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


East  or  West  Indies — and  my  wanderings  have  car- 
ried me  into  very  active  fever  breeding  districts. 
This  exemption  I attribute  partly  to  natural  health 
and  strength,  but  mostly  to  intelligent  care  of  my 
stomach ; to  moderate  eating  of  simple  food — as 
nourishing  as  may  be — and  especially  to  extremely 
moderate  drinking  of  spiritus  frumenti;  abstinence, 
in  fact,  except  at  moments  of  chill  from  inordinate 
wetting.  At  such  times  a small  horn  of  rum  with 
plenty  of  lemon  is  a preventive  of  that  fever  herald 
ague,  and  not  unagreeable  to  the  taste  of  the  average 
hunter.  Against  insects,  however,  there  is  no  pre- 
ventive; and  next  to  the  Casiquiare  River,  this  por- 
tage remains  unrivalled  the  full  length  of  the  Road 
for  their  malignity. 

On  the  south  side  a considerable  tribe  of  the  Mai- 
pure  Indians  once  dwelt  and  maintained  a more  or 
less  predatory  warfare  against  the  Atures  that  had 
their  headquarters  on  the  north  side.  But  nothing 
now  remains  of  these  one  time  active  people  save  their 
names,  given  by  the  missionaries  to  the  great  cata- 
racts at  each  terminal  of  the  strait,  and  the  cavern 
tomb  of  the  Ataruipe  where  rest  the  bones  of  many 
of  the  lost  tribe  of  Atures. 

Those  left  try  to  wrest  a living  from  the  uncon- 
genial surroundings,  aided  largely  by  what  they  earn 
from  the  few  travellers  through  transporting  cargoes 
overland  and  assisting  the  passage  of  the  canoes 
among  the  rocks.  The  man  who  on  one  trip  took  my 
stuff  across  to  Atures  in  his  ox-drawn  cart  told  me, 
indeed,  that  without  the  wage  made  from  voyagers 
he  could  not  remain  on  the  portage. 

As  if  their  life’s  burden  was  not  already  heavy  to 


THE  OX-CART  PACKING  MY  OUTFIT  OVERLAND  AT  THE  GREAT  CATARACTS — ONE  OF 
THE  GREAT  BOULDER  MOUNDS  IN  THE  BACKGROUND 


AN  ARDUOUS  PASSAGE 


195 


the  crushing  point,  jaguars  keep  the  poor,  straggling 
Indians  hereabouts  in  more  than  the  usual  terror — 
presumably  one  of  Mother  Nature’s  little  ironies  in 
thus  guarding  with  wild  beasts,  as  it  were,  a spot 
essentially  so  uninviting  as  to  repel  residence.  If 
there  were  cattle  on  the  isthmus,  the  rather  open  and 
rock-filled  savannahs  of  the  west  side  might  offer 
bait  for  “ el  tigre  ” (jaguar),  and  give  just  cause  for 
his  bad  name,  which,  as  it  is,  seems  to  me  undeserved. 
There  are  vouched-for  records  of  one  jaguar  having 
carried  off  a child,  and  of  another  openly  attacking 
and  killing  a woman,  but  I saw  nothing  of  the  big  cat 
and  heard  nothing  to  justify  its  local  reputation.  Yet 
it  holds  the  Indians  in  subjection  none  the  less. 

Roughly  outlined,  this  “ land  strait,”  as  Hum- 
boldt authoritatively  called  it,  may  be  described  as 
forty  miles  of  savannah-topped  rocky  isthmus  and 
tumbling  water  plentifully  strewn  with  boulders, 
rapids  and  cataracts. 

When  I ascended  the  river  they  told  me  the  cata- 
racts are  more  easily  crossed  in  the  time  of  high 
water;  on  my  down  trip,  low  water  was  declared  best 
suited  to  the  attempt.  The  truth  is,  the  difficulties 
vary  a bit  in  kind  but  mighty  little  in  degree;  the 
passage  in  all  seasons  is  arduous  in  the  extreme  and 
hazardous  to  the  canoe  and,  in  places,  to  the  men. 
Perhaps,  when  going  up-stream  at  low  water,  we  had 
a trifle  less  trouble  at  the  Atures  end  and  more  under 
like  river  conditions  at  Maipures,  which  contains  an 
eight-  or  ten-foot-high  rock  dike,  whereas  the  deeply 
imbedded  Atures  has  swifter  water  but  no  obstruc- 
tion so  tremendous.  In  the  main,  however,  the  cata- 
racts present  similar  impediments  to  the  voyager. 


196 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


viz.,  stretches  of  rapid  water  racing  over  a succession 
of  rock  dams  or  benches,  many  of  them  bearing 
names  given  by  the  Indians.  Between  these  benches, 
islands  divide  and  still  further  quicken  the  swift  river 
into  narrow  channels  through  which  the  water  boils 
and  cascades  to  test  the  utmost  skill  of  the  canoe- 
men.  Some  of  these  islands  are  low  and  flat,  others 
several  hundred  feet  long  bear  cone-shaped  hills  and 
most  of  them  send  off  cavernous,  granite  islets  which 
serve  as  refuge  harbours  to  the  canoeist  laboriously 
ascending,  but  add  another  point  of  prospective  ship- 
wreck in  the  mad  rush  down-stream  through  the 
churning,  twisting  channels. 

Where  the  benches  were  low  and  the  bed  not  too 
full  of  rocks,  we  stuck  to  the  canoe  in  the  down  pas- 
sage and  hauled  by  rope  on  the  up  trip,  but  mostly 
the  empty  craft  was  passed  along  from  rock  shelf  to 
rock  shelf,  an  exhausting  task  with  the  river  slam- 
ming you  about  and  tripping  you  up,  endangering 
both  your  boat  and  your  head.  Where  the  going  is 
at  its  worst,  the  canoe  is  carried  along  shore  until 
another  flotation  may  be  attempted.  So  you  keep  it 
up  for  all  of  the  forty  miles  of  land  strait  separating 
the  Upper  from  the  Lower  Orinoco.  And  whether 
you  are  bound  up-stream  or  down,  getting  across 
the  isthmus  is  like  a hurried,  anxious  scramble  over 
a rocky  and  slippery  causeway,  where  a single  mis- 
step will  plunge  you  headlong  into  the  seething 
waters  below. 

We  had  wretched  crossings  going  down — three 
days  of  heavy  rain  with  intervals  of  zancudo  attack, 
which  usually  attains  to  activity  nothing  short  of 
fiendish  just  before  and  just  after  a downpour,  and 


SHOOTING  THE  CHUTES 


197 


two  of  the  crew  rolled  in  their  blankets  fever-stricken 
during  practically  the  entire  passage.  Luckily  we 
had  less  portaging  along  shore  on  the  up-trip,  which 
consumed  the  better  part  of  a week,  although  log- 
rolling the  canoe  overland  would  have  come  as  a wel- 
come relief  to  our  short-handed  drudgery  among  the 
granite  blocks  of  the  rampant  river,  that  not  only 
snatched  the  canoe  out  of  hand,  but  hurled  us  aside 
contemptuously  as  it  willed.  Yet  the  shooting- the- 
chutes  way  we  slipped  through  some  of  the  narrow 
channels  gave  exhilarating  moments  that  repaid  the 
toil  of  the  heavier,  less  enlivening  work. 

On  the  ten-mile  portage  which  terminates  the 
Atures  side  of  the  strait,  I left  the  canoe  to  the  re- 
inforced crew  and  went  on  foot  across  the  bare,  boul- 
der-scattered savannah  while  the  cargo  followed  in 
ox  carts  at  a pace  which  took  all  day  for  the  journey. 
Incidentally  the  trip  provided  a very  fair  exposition 
of  the  average  local  intelligence.  In  packing  the 
cart,  the  Indians  stowed  away  under  my  rubber  sheet 
some  canned  stuff  picked  up  at  Maipures,  and  left 
my  blanket  and  duffle  bags  on  top  exposed  to  the 
rain!  of  which,  by  the  way,  less  than  usual  fell.  In 
fact,  for  the  first  time  in  many  weeks,  I experienced 
almost  an  entire  afternoon  of  sunshine,  and  took  sev- 
eral photographs,  though  only  a poor  one  of  the  ox 
carts  with  one  of  the  cone-shaped  cerros  in  the  back- 
ground resulted,  because,  I suppose,  of  the  later 
steamings  and  river  baptism  to  which  the  films  were 
subjected  before  I finally  reached  Bolivar. 

What  a pleasure  it  was  to  give  my  legs  a real  good 
stretching!  one  gets  so  canoe  weary.  Despite  the  in- 
sects, which  were  making  tl^e  most  of  the  unusual 


198 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


weather,  the  walk  gave  me  great  pleasure  and  an 
intimate  knowledge  of  these  curious  and  picture- 
making rock  meadows.  Except  for  doves,  there  were 
almost  no  birds ; indeed,  bird  life  is  scarce  at  the  cat- 
aracts, and  the  somewhat  sharply  drawn  incongruity 
of  cooing  peace  birds  and  devilishly  murderous  jen- 
jens  amused  me  as  I sat  on  a granite  cube  listening  to 
the  one  and  lustily  defending  myself  against  the 
other.  Across  on  the  north  side,  however,  I descried 
a grand  king-fisher,  two  of  them,  in  fact,  and  shot  a 
bird  new  to  me  called  “ land  duck  ” by  the  natives, 
which  was  tough  eating. 

On  a small  tributary  river  beyond  the  last  cat- 
aract, I found  the  canoe  and  the  Indians  in  a hot  and 
insect-ridden  camp,  and  here  with  the  roar  of  the 
rapids  rising  and  falling  as  a fitful  breeze  played  over 
us,  I swung  my  hammock  for  the  last  time  on  this 
colourful  but  vexatious  isthmus. 


CHAPTER  XV 
RACING  THE  LOWER  ORINOCO 


After  so  tempestuous  a portage,  the  lull  and  the 
indolence  of  the  bay  at  the  northern  harbour  ( Atures) 
was  balm  to  high  tension  nerves  and  jaded  muscles. 
’Tis  a haven  providentially  placed,  and  Bay  of  Con- 
tent should  be  its  name.  Like  the  roadside  hostelry 
of  the  two-faced  sign,  it  affords  cheer  for  the  traveller 
in  either  direction.  Going  down-stream,  it  is  a wel- 
comed rest  house  where  he  seeks  composure  and  takes 
stock  of  belongings — including  his  bones;  going  up, 
after  five  hundred  miles  of  some  sailing  and  much 
paddling,  it  is  equally  welcome  to  the  adventurer  as 
the  passage  to  the  little  known  upper  Orinoco  and 
a signal  to  gird  up  loins  for  the  approaching  strug- 
gle to  the  southern  gateway  at  Maipures,  where  na- 
ture provides  no  similar  spot  of  tranquillity  amid  its 
wilder  splendours. 

A becoming  omen  of  the  comparative  peace  of 
the  lower  river  is  the  Bay,  yet,  after  all,  but  a breath- 
ing spot,  for  not  until  we  have  passed  under  the  im- 
pressive mountain-flanked  portal  at  the  Zambore 
River,  and  have  crossed  the  mouth  of  the  Meta,  do 
we  reach  untroubled  water.  As  immediately  above 
the  cataracts  the  Orinoco  (apparently  to  conserve  its 
strength  for  the  crossing)  holds  to  a half-mile  path, 
so  also  immediately  below  it  retains  the  force  of  its 
narrowed  track  until  these  outposts  of  the  conquered 
Parimas  at  the  Zambore  are  passed.  Here,  sweep- 
ing grandly  through  the  huge,  granite  gateway,  it 


199 


200 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


rushes  along  in  furious  haste,  to  open  again  into 
another  two-mile  bay  before  finally  changing  into  the 
less  hampered  and  broader  course. 

There  are  three  miles  of  this  impetuosity  at  Zam- 
bore  just  above  the  Meta,  and  almost  half  of  it  is  over 
rock — huge  granite  blocks  singly  and  in  loosely 
joined  company,  making  a weary  path  for  the  up- 
stream voyager,  especially  in  low  water. 

My  ascent  from  the  Meta  to  Atures  cost  me,  in 
February,  three,  hard  full  days,  with  a narrow  es- 
cape from  shipwreck  in  the  whirling  waters  around 
the  great  mid-stream  boulder  El  Tigre ; down-stream 
over  the  same  course,  in  June,  I was  twelve  hours 
on  my  first  journey  and  ten  on  my  second!  Every 
time  I passed  this  bay  I landed  to  get  a “ howler,” 
a large,  reddish  monkey,  and  possessor  of  the  most 
outlandish  voice  ever  I heard  in  jungle  or  out  of  it. 
I never  succeeded,  though  I had  several  near  views 
of  a small  monkey  of  white  face  and  black  muzzle, 
which  huddled  in  pairs  and  looked  down  with  so  piti- 
ful an  expression  I could  not  find  heart  to  shoot 
as  my  men  requested — roast  monkey  being  relished 
by  some  Indians.  I often  thought  I’d  taste  the  flesh 
to  satisfy  my  curiosity  as  to  its  flavour,  but  never  did 
so — even  with  hunger  fairly  established  among  us. 

On  passing  the  Meta,  one  comes  into  a new  coun- 
try; the  banks  grow  more  open  and  varied,  the  for- 
est scatters,  the  mountains  recede,  animal  and  par- 
ticularly bird  life  increases.  The  river  widens,  sandy 
shores  come  first  in  evidence,  and  because  of  the  more 
gentle  land  slope,  the  speed  of  its  current  slackens, 
while  islands  and  bays  in  places  give  it  almost  the 
appearance  of  an  estuary.  It  is  the  same  Orinoco, 


A VAST  FLOOD  LAND 


201 


only  now  tamed,  though  here  and  there  it  breaks  the 
peace  bonds  for  a short  period  of  rampage.  Ex- 
panding to  over  a mile  in  width  after  the  run  through 
Zambore,  it  is  never  less  and  sometimes  adds  another 
mile  en  route  until  at  Urbana  it  spreads,  accord- 
ing to  season,  from  two  miles  to  four.  Where  far- 
ther along  it  turns  east  and  is  joined  by  the  Apure, 
entering  from  the  northwest,  it  becomes  an  inland  sea, 
which  was  all  of  five  or  six  miles  across  on  the  several 
times  I saw  it  in  June  and  never  less  than  two  miles 
in  low  water. 

The  character  of  the  contingent  country  under- 
goes as  much  change  as  the  river  itself.  From  the 
quarter-mile  mouth  of  the  mud-coloured  Meta,  all 
that  west  bank  to  the  Apure  is  so  low,  even  in  its 
northern  quarter,  as  to  become  largely  flood  land  in 
high  water.  On  the  east  bank,  the  isolated  rock  cer- 
ros  make  practically  their  last  important  appearance 
a bit  north  of  the  bay  at  the  Meta;  while  the  moun- 
tain spurs,  to  which,  on  the  descent,  one  has  become 
accustomed,  diminish  and  withdraw  until  a short 
two-mile  bit  five  or  six  hundred  feet  high  off  Ur- 
bana is  the  first  signal  of  the  plain  country  and  the 
last  vanguard  of  the  mountainous  interior — the  be- 
ginning or  the  end,  according  to  whether  you  are 
headed  up-river  or  dovTi. 

Between  the  Meta  and  a little  settlement  called 
Caicara,  just  inside  the  bend  made  by  the  Orinoco’s 
sharp  turn  to  the  east,  are  many  exposed  beaches  of 
islands  and  flood  land  and  sand  shoals — loosely  called 
“ playas.”  These  are  the  chosen  and  populous  resorts 
of  the  crocodiles  and  the  turtles.  At  the  lowest  water 
the  latter  gather  in  multitudes,  and  while  the  New 


202 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


World  representative  of  the  Old  World  saurian  is 
mostly  in  evidence  in  the  time  of  rains  and  afF ects  the 
shoals  and  the  flood-land,  the  turtles  are  more  discrim- 
inating, and  confine  themselves  to  the  islands,  espe- 
cially the  islands  near  Urbana,  which  is  halfway  be- 
tween Caicara  and  the  INIeta.  Here,  in  F ebruary  and 
March,  nature  puts  on  view  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able of  her  amazing  exhibitions — a spectacle  like  unto 
that  of  the  great  flamingo  nesting  colony  with  which 
the  illuminating  photographs  and  studies  of  Frank 
M.  Chapman  have  acquainted  us. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  turtles  on  the  Orinoco; 
one  bears  a dark  green  shell  about  a foot  in  diameter ; 
the  other  averaging  twice  as  large,  weighs  about  fifty 
pounds  and  has  a grayish  shell  and  flat  head  heavily 
furrowed  between  the  eyes.  Neither  of  these  is 
found  on  the  upper  river,  but  a fresh  water  tortoise, 
about  the  size  of  and  similar  in  aspect  to  the  smaller, 
is  said  to  abound  above  the  cataracts  and  to  supply 
edible  eggs  and  flesh  to  the  ISIaquiritares.  I some- 
times saw  this  turtle  in  the  water,  and  learned  that 
though  it  is  sought  for  food  it  does  not,  like  the  larger 
one,  lay  in  colonies  and,  therefore,  conducts  no  yearly 
assemblage  to  attract  the  Indians.  On  the  lower 
river  the  smaller  is  an  inconsequential  figure  denied 
even  the  right  of  its  generic  name,  for  the  natives 
commonly  employ  only  the  general  term,  “ tortuga,” 
which  simply  means  turtle,  and  is  invariably  and  ex- 
clusively applied  to  the  large  one. 

What  with  its  flesh  providing  meat  and  its  eggs 
both  meat  and  a commercial  oil,  the  tortuga  comes 
near  to  being  to  the  natives  on  the  Orinoco  and  Ama- 


THE  AMAZING  TURTLE  HOST 


203 


zon  what  the  caribou  is  to  the  Indians  of  the  far 
Northwest.  Certainly  it  shares  with  fish  in  furnish- 
ing the  basic  food  yield  of  the  Road  north  of  the 
Argentine.  And  a most  palatable  flesh  it  offers.  I 
had  no  opportunity  to  try  it  in  my  hurried  and  out  of 
season  voyages  on  the  Orinoco,  but  on  the  Amazon 
and  the  lower  Rio  Negro,  fried  in  its  own  oil,  I ate 
it  often  and  found  it  tasteful — as  fried  things  go. 
Next  to  peixeboi,  I liked  it  best  of  local  offerings, 
the  fish  being,  as  a rule,  coarse  or  of  little  flavour.  Of 
turtle  eggs,  I cannot  speak  as  highly,  although  they 
are  much  relished  by  the  Indians;  for  me  they  had  a 
peculiar  and  not  pleasing  oily  taste.  Perhaps 
full  stores  at  the  time  made  me  fastidious. 

On  the  Amazon,  the  turtle  lays  its  eggs  in  Sep- 
tember, but  on  the  Orinoco,  extreme  low  water  comes 
in  late  January,  and  at  that  time  in  the  waters  far- 
thest from  travel  and  on  the  islands  amid  the  least 
used  channels  begins  the  every  year  gathering  of  the 
tortuga  host. 

And  what  a host!  I have  seen  the  beach  of  an 
island  literally  covered  by  them  and  could  have  seen 
the  same  sight  on  many  other  beaches,  had  I not 
confined  my  observations  to  the  one  out  of  respect 
to  the  feelings  of  the  natives,  who,  during  these 
periods,  avoid  the  known  breeding  grounds  so  the 
turtles  will  not  be  disturbed.  During  all  of  Feb- 
ruary, the  turtles  thus  disport  themselves  on  the 
beaches  under  the  burning  sun — a necessary  stimu- 
lant, the  Indians  maintain,  to  the  following  function 
of  egg  laying.  Early  in  JVIarch,  the  sun  bath  being 
completed  and  the  signal  set,  the  turtles  swim  in  com- 
panies to  such  other  beaches  as  they  have  been  wont 


204 


THE  FI.OWING  ROAD 


to  frequent  only  for  the  purpose  of  laying  their  inch- 
round,  white  eggs. 

It  is  an  accepted  fact  among  the  Indians  that, 
whereas  great  throngs  of  turtles  sun  together  on  a 
given  beach,  they  divide  into  troops  when  the  eggs 
press,  and  journey  to  other  beaches,  the  same  each 
year  if  unmolested.  On  the  beach  of  these  chosen 
islands,  always  in  the  night,  they  deposit  their  eggs 
in  holes  of  about  two  feet  in  depth  by  as  much  in 
diameter,  digging  rapidly  with  their  powerful  feet 
as  the  pressure  comes  upon  them.  At  times,  when 
the  seemingly  uncontrollable  egg  flow  has  prema- 
turely started,  they  usurp  the  prepared  or  even 
partly  or  entirely  filled  nest  of  a nearby  and  more 
provident  turtle.  The  Indians  of  the  Orinoco  say 
the  tortiiga  lays  from  seventy-five  to  one  hundred 
eggs  each.  Naturalist  Bates,  whose  thorough  studies 
on  the  Amazon  give  authority  to  his  statements,  says 
the  Amazonian  turtle  lays  one  hundred  and  twenty 
eggs;  and  on  both  divisions  of  the  flowing  road,  the 
clutch,  if  I may  borrow  the  word,  occupies  about  half 
the  hole,  which  for  the  rest  the  turtle  dirt  fills  level 
with  the  beach  in  which  it  is  dug. 

Until  the  turtles  have  all  deposited  their  eggs, 
the  Indians  protect  them  from  intrusion,  but  once  the 
holes  are  filled  they  lose  no  time  flocking  to  the  scene, 
and  forthwith,  in  the  last  of  March  or  first  of  April, 
the  harvest  begins.  With  long,  slender  sticks,  they 
travel  up  and  down  the  beach  sounding  for  the  cov- 
ered eggs,  often  destroying  many,  despite  the  tough 
membrane  casing,  in  their  eagerness  to  outstrip  a 
companion  explorer.  It  is  not  the  harvest  it  used  to 
be,  when  the  catch  was  large  enough  to  bring  plenty 


EGGS  FOR  MAN  AND  BEAST 


205 


to  practically  all  of  the  inhabitants  on  the  river  be- 
tween Atures  and  Apure.  The  same  old  story  of 
greed  with  which  we  of  the  North  are  familiar — leav- 
ing no  eggs  to  hatch — is  answerable  for  the  depleted 
supply.  Traffic  in  oil  is  still  an  item  of  local  impor- 
tance, but  as  about  two  thousand  eggs  are  required  to 
produce  a gallon,  the  demand  on  both  the  supply  and 
native  industry  is  too  heavy  to  warrant  serious  de- 
velopment in  a commercial  way. 

Nor  is  man  the  only  one  to  exact  toll  of  the  tor- 
tuga.  The  eggs  which  are  overlooked  by  the  natives 
are  sought  with  persistence  and  rising  appetite  by 
jaguars,  crocodiles,  herons  and  various  members  of 
the  rat  family — ^the  jaguar  preying  also  upon  the 
turtle  itself,  which  he  turns  on  its  back  to  helplessly 
await  the  pleasure  of  this  great  cat’s  feeding.  The 
heron,  with  its  long  beak,  sounds  for  eggs  with  nearly 
the  prescience  and  all  the  success  of  the  Indians.  In- 
deed, once  the  turtles  have  left  their  nest,  the  beach 
becomes  a scene  of  egg  carnage  and  vicious  reprisal, 
beginning  with  man  as  the  first  and  most  audacious 
actor  and  extending  down  through  animal,  bird  and 
reptilian  imitators,  to  the  timid  agouti  which  comes 
trembling  upon  the  scene  sniffing,  not  too  far  from 
the  bush  edge,  for  the  possible  leavings  of  the  others. 

Such  eggs  as  eseape  intelligent  search  and  preda- 
tory prowlers  hatch  out  little  turtles,  which,  under 
cover  of  night,  unaided,  dig  out  of  their  sand  hole, 
and,  unguided,  find  their  way  to  shallow  water,  where, 
if  the  bottom  is  rock-strewn,  they  are  safe  from  all 
their  enemies,  even  the  crocodiles.  A striking  illus- 
tration of  hereditary  instinct  it  seems  to  me,  for  it  is, 
no  doubt,  because  of  an  inherited  struggle  for  exist- 


206 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


ence  that  the  tortuga  invariably  deposits  its  eggs  and 
the  hatched  appear  in  the  protecting  darkness. 

Not  so  with  the  crocodile — it  has  no  need  to  hunt 
seclusion  or  the  cover  of  night  to  produce  its  young. 
On  the  playas  its  eggs  are  deposited  in  several  sepa- 
rate holes,  and  at  the  time  of  hatching,  the  mother, 
in  the  broad  light  of  day,  returns  to  help  the  young 
out  of  the  sand  and  to  herd  them  back  among  the 
overflow  pools  where  life  is  more  prosperous  and 
less  liable  to  accident.  Like  the  jaguar,  the  crocodile 
of  these  remote  parts  has  nothing  to  fear  on  land  or 
in  the  water,  unless  it  be  one  another.  The  Indians 
used  often  to  tell  me  of  fights  between  these  two 
in  which  the  jaguar  was  mostly  the  loser — but  I never 
saw  such  an  encounter,  or  knew  of  such  a one  being 
authenticated.  No  doubt  in  the  water,  a full-grown 
crocodile  could  worst  a jaguar,  and  as  the  latter  are 
occasional  swimmers  and  usually  range  near  a stream, 
such  combats  are  entirely  probable.  I cannot,  how- 
ever, picture  a jaguar  beaten  on  land  by  a crocodile, 
be  it  the  biggest  imagination  can  picture. 

It  is  commonly  said  that  crocodiles  are  vicious 
and  aggressive.  First  and  last,  in  Malaya  and  South 
America,  I have  seen  quite  a lot  of  the  brutes  and 
hold  the  contrary  belief,  with  the  reservation  that 
they  are  quite  liable  to  attack  if  they  can  do  so  un- 
observed. In  other  words,  I consider  the  crocodile 
a coward  that  will  never  assail  you  if  your  eye  is  on 
him.  It  is  true  the  hideous  creature  will  lurk  about 
a settlement  or  at  a specific  spot  from  which  it  has 
been  driven.  In  my  own  experience  I have  known 
of  its  repeatedly  entering  at  night  the  compound  of 
a small  collection  of  huts  on  the  Malay  coast,  to 


A DREADED  REPTILE 


207 


terrorize  the  wretched  people  and  finally  to  seize  and 
partly  carry  off  a sleeping  young  woman. 

Where  not  effectually  repulsed,  i.e.,  actually  hurt, 
it  will  sneak  again  and  again  to  a locality  where  a 
tidbit  offers,  such  as  dog  or  pig  or  chicken  or  child, 
growing  bolder  with  each  unharmed  adventure,  until 
it  really  reduces  the  place  to  practical  vassalage. 
Often  some  little  settlement  is  thus  held  in  subjection 
until  guns  are  brought  to  raise  the  siege — knives  and 
spears  being,  as  a rule,  the  extent  of  armament  at 
the  average  Malayan  hut.  At  such  a terrorized  ham- 
let, where  a baby  boy  had  been  seized  at  its  play  in 
broad  day  near  the  water  whence  it  had  strayed,  I 
once  spent  a week  of  bloody  warfare,  killing  a baker’s 
dozen  of  the  beasts — three  of  them  in  the  basin 
whither  the  people  went  for  their  water.  Many  a 
dog  and  small  pig  has  been  seized  as  it  lowered  its 
head  to  drink,  and  often  a child  sent  to  the  water- 
hole  unaccompanied  or  unaware  of  danger  has  been 
dragged  in  as  it  stooped  to  fill  the  jar — for  the  water- 
hole  is  a favourite  lurking  ground  of  the  crocodile 
which  has  singled  out  a village  for  toll,  and  even  the 
men  and  women  need  to  be  on  the  lookout. 

The  crocodile  hunts  singly;  I have  never  heard  of 
a case  where  they  have  invaded  in  company,  or  of  an 
instance  of  seizure  in  which  more  than  one  has  been 
concerned.  And  it  seems  strange  to  me  that  the  beast 
should  leave  companions  in  order  to  make  a seiz- 
ure. Is  there  a confederacy,  and  one  chosen  to  do 
the  hunting?  Or,  among  a given  company  in  given 
water  near  by  a settlement,  do  they  take  turns  in 
hunting?  Is  it  the  same  one  which  nightly  makes 
the  attempt  to  drag  down  the  human  morsel?  Do 


208 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


they  share  the  spoils,  or  does  the  successful  monster 
retire  to  a secluded  spot  for  his  feast?  Were  the 
crocodiles  which  continued  nightly  to  visit  the  hamlet 
and  the  creature  which  captured  the  child  near  the 
water-hole  one  and  the  same,  or  had  those  I here 
subsequently  slaughtered  alternated  the  vigil  and  the 
stalk?  It  is  difficult  to  say,  for  among  a troop  of 
crocodiles  there  is  no  distinguishing  mark  save  size. 
Is  the  man-eater,  as  in  the  case  of  the  maligned  tiger, 
one  by  accident  or  by  nature?  Is  it  perverted  or 
acquired  taste? 

My  opinion  is  that  the  crocodile,  which  preys 
upon  a number  of  smallish,  more  or  less  to  its 
eyes,  dog-like,  jungle  animals,  such  as  the  several 
tiny  deer  in  JSIalaya  and  the  many  members  of  the 
rat  family  in  South  America,  has  its  attention  first 
drawn  to  these  hamlets  by  dogs,  perhaps,  and  thus 
on  forays  becomes  acquainted  with  the  chickens  and 
the  humans,  while  with  pigs  it  already  has  a jungle 
intimacy.  Moreover,  the  crocodile  is  a forager  which 
takes  whatever  in  its  sneaking  path  is  unaware  or 
not  too  large;  an  opinion,  so  far  as  disposition  is  con- 
cerned, shared  by  as  eminent  a herpetologist  as 
Raymond  L.  Ditmars,  Curator  of  Reptiles  at  the 
N.  Y.  Zoological  Park,  who  says  that  in  captivity 
the  crocodiles  become  so  bold  as  to  attack  the 
careless  or  unwatchful  keeper.  In  the  wilderness, 
so  far  as  my  observation  goes,  what  the  crocodile  se- 
cures it  takes  away  to  devour  alone  if  it  can,  or  fights 
for  a share  if  it  must;  it  does  not  drag  its  victim  to 
the  water  if  it  is  not  interrupted  or  pursued,  or  if  its 
quarry  can  be  consumed  on  the  spot.  Considering 
the  smallness  of  its  throat,  the  theory  that  it  enjoys 


THE  COWARDLY  FORAGER 


209 


mostly  the  blood  and  fat  may  account  for  its  never 
seeking  anything  so  large,  as,  for  instance,  the  capy- 
bara.  I have  seen  it  rend  on  the  spot  of  seizure  a 
small  animal  about  the  size  of  the  common  rabbit, 
and  I have  seen  several  crocodiles  fight  savagely  over 
a poor  dog  one  of  them  had  dragged  into  the  water 
from  the  bank  where  it  was  incautiously  drinking.* 

What  I have  written  here  of  the  crocodile  forag- 
ing for  human  meat  is  the  result  of  Far  Eastern 
observation.  I have  never  heard  of  similar  exhibitions 
along  any  part  of  the  Road,  or,  indeed,  in  any  part 
of  South  or  Central  America  or  Mexico  or  Cuba 
or  the  West  Indies  where  I have  journeyed.  Yet 
the  natives  everywhere  have  a firmly  established 
and  entirely  warranted  dread  of  the  loathsome  brute, 
which,  while  never  attacking  in  the  open,  so  far  as 
I have  ever  heard,  is  always  liable  to  pounce  upon 
a helpless  victim  unconscious  of  its  presence.  That 
is  why  in  crocodile  infested  rivers  you  should  never, 
from  the  bank,  dip  up  water  without  first  exploring 
it  with  a long  stick,  for  to  lie  close  to  the  edge  and 
thus  to  catch  the  drinking  animals  is  a favourite 
game  of  the  ugly  thing;  nor  should  you  approach 
water-holes  without  careful  scrutiny  of  the  jungle 
immediately  surrounding.  Moreover,  it  is  helpful  to 
bear  in  mind  that  the  crocodile  belongs  to  the  arrant 
class  that  ambush  their  quarry  and  you  need  never 
fear  the  one  in  sight.  The  yarns  about  crocodiles 

* Feeding  immediately  on  capture  is  not  usual,  croco- 
diles being  thought  to  prefer  their  meat  quite  “ high  ” in 
flavour  and  accustomed  to  hide  a kill  until  it  attains  to  the 
necessary  degree  of  decomposition.  But  this,  like  all  rules, 
has  its  exceptions. 


210 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


attacking  men  in  canoes  and  knocking  them  off  the 
stern  with  their  tails  into  the  water  for  easier  cap- 
ture are  fully  out  of  accord  with  my  experience  and 
probably  may  be  classed  with  the  weird  stories  which 
filter  through  town-confined  government  officers  and 
sea  captains  to  tourists  who  spread  them  in  more  sub- 
stantial forms. 

On  the  playas  of  this  reach  of  the  Orinoco,  on 
two  descents,  I saw  more  crocodiles  than  I thought 
the  entire  river  held,  yet  they  were  suprisingly  diffi- 
cult of  near  approach.  Time  and  again,  after  a very 
careful  stalk  to  where  I had  viewed  a troop  sunning, 
I came  within  camera  range  only  to  see  them  sliding 
into  the  water,  and  although  I shot  many,  I never 
succeeded  in  being  near  enough  for  a photograph 
when  there  was  a fair  light.  I do  not  regard  the  kill- 
ing of  them  as  sport.  My  shooting  was  for  the  pur- 
pose of  securing  data  on  their  length,  and  I picked 
out  of  each  company  only  those  which  appeared  un- 
usually large — incidentally,  I found  them  fairly  easy 
practice  here,  making  a very  much  higher  average 
of  kills  than  in  Malaya,  where  mostly  one  must  take 
them  in  the  water,  and  unless  killed  instantly  they 
are  apt  to  go  to  the  bottom.  The  biggest  crocodile 
I potted  on  the  Orinoco  measured  twelve  feet  three 
inches,  and  was  next  to  the  largest  one  I saw,  which 
could  not  have  been  short  of  fifteen  feet  as  he  lay 
apart  from  companions  on  the  point  of  a long  sand 
shoal.  I felt  so  sure  of  securing  his  photograph  that 
I left  my  rifle  in  the  canoe,  when,  from  the  bank  on 
the  down-stream  side,  I began  a cautious  approach, 
hidden  by  the  slant  of  the  playa ; but  when,  after  ar- 
riving near  the  end,  I crawled  to  the  crest  with 
camera  ready,  no  crocodile  giant  was  in  sight.  I 


IN  THE  APURE  DELTA  NEAR  WHERE  THE  APURE  AND  ORINOCO  MEET 


TYPICAL  HOUSE  AND  SURROUNDINGS  ON  THE  LOWER  PORTUGUESA 


THE  QUESTION  OF  CROCODILE  LENGTH  211 

sometimes  wondered,  after  such  experiences,  if  they 
could  scent  me,  and,  at  least,  I learned  that  for  all 
their  sluggishness,  a crocodile  can  move  quickly  if 
need  be. 

In  the  English  edition  of  Humboldt  it  is  recorded 
that  he  encountered  crocodiles  on  the  Orinoco  meas- 
uring twenty-four  and  twenty-five  feet  in  length,  but 
I am  inclined  to  believe  the  translator  has  taken  lib- 
erties with  that  distinguished  explorer’s  original,  or 
misread  his  comment.  It  is  not  unlikely  Humboldt 
encountered  tales  of  such  reptiles;  the  Indians  with 
me  at  the  time  of  my  record  kill  said  there  were 
others  much  larger,  and  on  being  urged  to  say  how 
much  larger,  paced  off  from  one  mark  in  the  sand  to 
another — about  twenty  feet.  Over  in  the  Lake 
Maracaibo  country,  a man  assured  me  he  had  seen 
one  dead  on  the  bank  of  a contributing  river,  killed 
in  some  way  unaccountable,  which  was  twenty  feet 
long.  All  I can  say  is,  that  I never  saw  one  so  large 
on  the  Orinoco  or  the  Apure  or  the  Parana,  or  heard 
of  an  authenticated  case  beyond  eighteen  feet.  The 
average  size  of  those  I killed  and  saw  in  South 
America  was  ten  feet  upwards;  in  Malaya,  one  I shot 
on  the  coast  measured  nineteen  feet  seven  inches,  but 
the  average  was  little  over  twelve  feet.* 

Urbana  is  six  hundred  miles  up  the  Orinoco  and 

* Mr.  Ditmars  declares  that  the  caimans,  which  are  fre- 
quently confused  with  crocodiles,  although  smaller,  are  more 
closely  related  to  the  alligators  than  to  the  crocodiles,  not- 
withstanding that  several  species  have  sharp  snouts  like  the 
latter.  The  further  fact  that  among  South  American  croco- 
diles some  have  sharp  and  others  blunt,  alligator-like  snouts, 
makes  distinction  difficult  for  the  layman.  All  of  my  kills 
were  sharp  snouted  like  the  Malayan  or  true  crocodile. 


212 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


about  half  that  distance  from  Venezuela’s  capital 
city,  which  was  founded  in  1764,  and  once  appropri- 
ately known  as  Angostura  (the  narrows),  but  now, 
with  its  9000  people,  called  Bolivar,  to  honour  the 
“ libertador,”  Simon  Bolivar. 

It  has  the  best  opinion  of  itself  of  any  of  the 
settlements  between  Bolivar  and  San  Fernando  de 
Atabapo;  for  one  reason,  because  it  is  nearest  the 
turtle  islands,  and  for  another,  on  account  of  its 
having  as  many  as  ten  habitable  houses  strung  out 
in  a row  at  the  base  of  a point  which  projects  into 
the  Orinoco  at  perhaps  the  river’s  widest  stretch, 
next  to  that  where  the  Apure  comes  in  to  swell  the 
summer  flood.  From  here  it  had  taken  flve  active 
days  to  go  up  to  the  Meta,  but  my  second  descent 
was  made  in  two. 

On  my  first  trip,  I drifted  past  the  hamlet  in  my 
own  canoe  after  laying  in  a bountiful  supply  of 
the  half-inch-thick  disks  of  cassava,  for  which  the 
little  place  appears  justly  famed;  but  on  the  second 
coming,  fortune  was  not  so  kind.  The  crew  that 
had  proved  both  companionable  and  competent  could 
go  no  farther,  and  there  appeared  no  immediate  pros- 
pect of  replacing  them,  although  half  a dozen  canoes 
were  moored  to  the  bank  and  men  in  plenty  lounged 
around  the  houses.  But  after  patient  recruiting  and 
dickering,  I finally  succeeded  engaging  four  who 
agreed  to  take  me  to  Caicara.  The  canoe  they  pro- 
vided was  a bongo  modelled  out  of  what  must  have 
been  a monster  tree,  as  it  was  full  fifty  feet  long, 
about  two  feet  deep  and  three  feet  wide  amidships, 
with  neither  toldo  for  the  top  nor  gratings  for  the 
bottom.  It  had  been  used  as  a cargo  carrier  and  was 


WE  CAPSIZE  IN  THE  RAPIDS 


213 


an  unwieldy  as  well  as  a cranky  craft  for  five  men, 
our  light  luggage  making  so  little  impression  on  its 
draft  that  we  could  barely  reach  the  water  with  our 
paddles.  To  undertake  a journey  in  such  a boat,  so 
inadequately  equipped,  was,  of  course,  foolhardy, 
but  Caicara  is  not  more  than  a day  and  a night’s  run 
in  a strong  current.  Furthermore,  it  was  the  only 
transportation  obtainable  after  long  hours  of  search 
and  eloquence. 

Adept  to  a diabolical  degree  in  placing  stumbling 
blocks  before  the  foreign  wayfarer  is  a certain  vicious 
class  of  interior  Venezuelan  and  Brazilian! 

So  we  set  sail,  which  is  poetic  license  for  saying 
that  the  bongo  lumbered  from  under  the  point  and 
went  wobbling  along  in  the  current,  spasmodically 
aided,  so  to  say,  by  a nondescript  crew,  among  whom 
the  author  held  the  honoured  station  of  patron.  We 
must  have  made  an  impressive  spectacle  for  the  be- 
holders, and  it  is  too  bad  the  photograph  I took  of 
the  bongo  and  its  native  crew  just  before  starting 
could  not  have  been  saved  from  subsequent  wreck. 

The  Arauca  River,  rising  well  up  in  the  foot  of 
the  eastern  slope  of  the  Andes,  or,  as  officially  called, 
the  Cordillera  Oriental,  becomes,  for  a space  of  sev- 
eral hundred  miles,  like  both  the  Orinoco  and  the 
Meta,  a line  of  boundary  between  Colombia  and 
Venezuela.  Where  it  finally  joins  the  Orinoco  not 
very  far  below  Urbana,  there  is  a plentiful  sprinkling 
of  rocks,  and  the  result  is  the  Concession  Rapids — 
prophetic  name  1 Here,  in  our  clumsy  boat,  of  neces- 
sity clumsily  handled,  we  turned  over  on  a rock,  and 
the  entire  Orinoco,  it  seemed,  swept  through  the  bongo 
from  end  to  end,  washing  out  the  crew  and  every 


214 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


last  article  except  my  field-glasses,  which  had  caught 
by  the  case  strap  onto  a projecting  nail  in  the  point 
of  the  bow,  and  a quite  small  waterproof  canvas 
bag  containing  my  note-book  and  money,  that  was 
fastened,  as  usual,  by  its  strap  to  the  seat.  Food, 
clothing,  rifle,  camera,  tin  film  cases,  bedding,  not 
a thing  escaped  the  river.  Of  all  the  photographs 
only  one  pack  of  twelve  was  saved.  The  crew  was 
as  widely  distributed  as  the  cargo  and  had  to  swim 
for  the  bongo,  which,  after  a game  of  battledore  and 
shuttlecock  among  the  rocks,  cruised  to  the  far  side 
of  the  river,  where  in  a deep  bend  we  overtook  it 
bobbing  along  bottom  side  up.  We  spent  an  hour  or 
two  seeking  our  scattered  stuff,  but  the  sum  total 
of  our  find  was  a blanket,  several  soggy  slabs  of  cas- 
sava, one  hat,  and  my  camera,  so  battered  as  to  be 
useless  thenceforth.  It  is  illustrative  of  confirmed 
habit  that  each  one  of  us  retained  his  grasp  on  his 
paddle — in  my  case  the  favourite  sassafras. 

Such  a catastrophe  would  not  have  overtaken  us 
had  we  been  properly  shipped,  for  these  rapids  should 
be  safely  negotiated  at  all  times.  Yet  we  were  not 
blameless ; had  my  crew  been  of  better  stuff,  I believe 
our  passage  would  have  been  without  accident.  As  it 
was,  however,  they  aroused  from  slouchy  work  too 
late,  and  without  their  vigorous  and  concerted  help  I, 
at  the  steer  paddle,  could  not  master  the  lout  of  a 
canoe,  which,  once  out  of  control  amidst  the  rocks, 
nothing  but  providence  could  save  from  disaster;  and 
providence  doubtless  thought  we  needed  punishment, 
as  we  did. 

From  Caicara,  where  we  arrived  on  the  second 
morning  out,  with  appetites  somewhat  whetted  as 


THE  REWARD  OF  VIRTUE 


215 


you  may  imagine,  I had  the  same  difficulty  getting 
away  as  from  Urbana,  plus  insolent  extortion.  The 
village,  if  I may  so  dignify  a handful  of  adobes,  was 
quickly  and  very  much  alive  to  my  wanting  a canoe 
and  crew,  and  seemed  disposed  to  make  the  most  of 
the  situation.  Men  were  willing  to  be  engaged,  but 
at  figures  double  the  established  rate.  It  wasn’t  the 
demand,  but  the  manner  of  it,  that  determined  me  to 
disappoint  their  sneering  confidence  of  having  me  at 
their  mercy.  Strolling  from  the  forum,  as  it  were,  I 
found  in  the  afternoon  a man  living  apart  from  the 
settlement,  who  sold  me,  for  five  of  the  last  eight  sov- 
ereigns I possessed,  a small  dugout,  which  I forth- 
with stocked  with  cheese  and  cassava,  the  only  edible 
things  I could  secure,  preparatory  to  pursuing  my 
journey  alone.  At  this  evidence  of  self-reliance  vol- 
unteers at  the  usual  wage  simply  flocked  to  me,  but 
being  now  in  full  command  of  the  situation  I 
graciously  declined  their  service,  wishing  them  the 
while  bon  voyage  for  another  journey,  warmer  than 
the  torrid  Orinoco. 

Thus  saluting  the  Alcade  and  paying  my  warm 
respects  in  unequivocal  terms  to  the  city  fathers,  as 
well  as  to  their  brothers  and  sons  and  other  male 
relatives,  I had  slipped  the  painter  of  my  craft  and 
was  backing  out  into  the  river  in  order  to  courteously 
face  the  reciprocal  greetings,  hosannas  and  other 
things  coming  my  way,  when  the  only  good  man  of 
my  late  crew,  a halfbreed  named  Bias,  called  from 
the  bank  asking  to  be  taken. 

Bias  was  the  best  native  product  I met  on  the 
Orinoco.  During  the  four  days  and  nights  of  al- 
most continuous  travel  which  now  followed  before 


216 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


arriving  at  Bolivar,  he  laboured  quite  as  steadily  as 
I,  without  equal  incentive,  uttered  no  plaint  at  the 
stint  of  provisions,  and  was  a cheerful  companion 
throughout  constant  hard  work.  It  was  work  with 
adversity,  too,  for  on  the  first  night  we  ran  foul  that 
drifting  octopus  one  sometimes  encounters  on  the 
lower  river  in  the  wet  season — a derelict  tree  keeping 
pace  with  the  current,  butt  foremost,  roots  and 
branches  reacliing  high  and  wide  to  enmesh  every 
luckless  thing  in  its  path.  It  fell  upon  us  in  the  late 
dark.  Bias,  at  my  bidding,  had  lain  down  for  a nap 
while  I at  the  stern  kept  the  canoe  to  our  course, 
when  suddenly  out  of  the  quiet  and  the  blackness  of 
the  night  came  the  disconcerting  clasp  of  its  root 
tentacles.  It  was  my  first  intimation  of  its  presence, 
and  a queer  sensation  it  gave  me!  The  careening 
canoe  shook  Bias  out  of  his  slumber  and  he  was 
quickly  to  my  assistance,  but  we  were  nearly  overset 
before  getting  free  unharmed,  save  for  loss  of  a few 
cakes  of  cassava. 

Next  morning  as  we  came  into  the  last  reach  of 
the  Orinoco  where  it  runs  straightway  to  the  east  we 
picked  up  a couple  of  men  whose  help  I was  glad  to 
have,  as  we  were  now  in  the  region  of  the  “ chubasco,” 
a squall  similar  to  the  pampero  of  the  Plata,  caused 
by  shifting  and  very  strong  sea  winds  blowing  up- 
stream against  the  current.  These  burst  upon  you  so 
suddenly  that  from  the  middle  of  the  river  it  is  impos- 
sible to  reach  the  bank,  although  you  start  at  first  sight 
of  the  warning  cloud,  for  in  the  rough  water  you  must 
perforce  take  the  wave  bow  on  and  so  cannot  head 
straight  for  the  bank.  I have  never  had  such  dis- 
turbing or  muscle  breaking  moments  at  the  steer  end 


A GREAT  SHOW  OF  WILD  LIFE 


217 


of  a canoe  as  in  any  one  of  several  chubascos  which 
fell  upon  us  with  a swiftness  unbelievable.  Even  in 
its  normal  condition  the  river  at  this  part  was  too 
rough  for  a dugout  such  as  we  had,  and  during  the 
squalls  the  waves  mounted  high  around  us.  I fully 
expected  at  the  time  to  be  swamped,  and  to  this  day  I 
do  not  understand  how  our  canoe  lived  through  at 
least  two  of  those  storms. 

Where  the  river  straightened  out,  we  kept  close 
to  the  hotter  course  inshore  to  avoid  the  rougher 
water,  thus  losing  much  of  the  current’s  help,  but 
partly  recompensed  by  the  bird  life  almost  constantly 
in  sight.  Cranes  and  egrets  held  their  perch  as  we 
glided  noiselessly  by,  close  enough  to  see  startled 
questioning  in  their  dull  eyes ; a solitary  fishing  great 
heron  stretched  its  long  neck  to  watch  us  until  past; 
some  small  reptile — one  of  the  fifty-seven  million 
varieties  of  lizards,  no  doubt — scurried  at  the  feet 
of  this  long  fisherman  without  disturbing  his  equa- 
nimity; a flock  of  large,  black  birds,  bigger  than 
robins,  with  long  spreading  tail,  kept  ahead  of  us 
from  bush  to  bush;  a crane  less  curious  or  more 
timorous  than  his  fellows  flapped  his  way  slowly  in- 
land ; a hawk-like  bird,  large  as  an  eagle,  circled  over- 
head; a band  of  twittering  local  swallows,  small  but 
noisy,  skittered  by;  high  above  a pair  of  macaws 
crossed  with  the  speed  of  a duck,  sounding  their 
harsh  note  unendingly;  parrots  filled  a nearby  bit  of 
wood  with  their  unpleasant  voice;  there  were  ducks 
on  the  sand  bars  and  ibis  and  spoonbill  under  the 
banks.  Such  was  the  bird  life  about  us  on  the  savan- 
nahs which  now  topped  the  banks.  It  was  cheering 
to  lose  sight  of  the  sombre  forest  line,  and  to  see  in- 


218 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


stead  the  llanos  along  the  north  horizon.  And  the 
breeze  was  a blessing  after  the  windlessness  which 
makes  the  Upper  Orinoco  so  trying. 

The  rain  was  diminishing,  though  storms  of  ut- 
most severity  burst  upon  us  with  frequency  in  the 
afternoon,  but  when  clear,  the  sunsets  were  of  radiant 
glory — lilac  and  gold  effects  prevailing  in  the  cloud- 
ful sky;  and  as  the  short  twilight  neared  its  eclipse 
an  irregular  yellow  behind  a deep  blue  added  an  oc- 
casional arrangement  of  surpassing  beauty  among 
great  masses  of  mounting  cumuli. 

The  sun  was  hot,  but  the  breeze  directly  off  the 
Atlantic  brought  relief,  and  after  the  upper  river 
the  insect  pest  seemed  mild  to  inconsequence;  even 
the  jen-jen  appeared  but  a trifler.  We  were  on  the 
well-travelled  route  which  leads  from  Apure  to  Boli- 
var and  so  on  to  Trinidad.  It  was  good  to  be  alive 
after  all — even  on  cheese  and  cassava. 

Bright  and  early  on  a late  June  morning,  the 
twenty-second  day  from  that  on  which  I had  looked 
last  upon  the  Casiquiare,  about  1000  miles  up-river, 
my  canoe  grated  the  sloping  bank  of  Ciudad  Bolivar, 
and  I stood  upon  the  beach,  bare-legged  to  the 
thighs,  looking,  no  doubt,  in  tattered  shirt,  like  a 
derelict  cast  up  by  the  sea.  Luckily,  it  was  4.30  a.m. 

My  actual  travelling  time  from  Esmeralda  had 
been  fourteen  “ days  ” averaging  about  twenty  hours 
— for  I travelled  all  night  as  well  as  all  day — which, 
considering  delay  at  the  cataracts,  was  excellent  go- 
ing, and  indicates  the  speed  of  the  Flowing  Road. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
SITTING  UP  FOR  EL  TIGRE 


Sprawled  along  the  west  bank  of  the  largest  lake 
in  South  America,  Maracaibo  offers  little  in  the  way 
of  looks,  but  it  has  a warm  heart  and  courtesy  and 
manners.  At  least,  so  I found  it,  and  I cannot  re- 
gard myself  an  exception  in  the  rule  of  the  town’s 
conduct  to  the  stranger  within  her  gates.  No;  it’s 
the  way  of  the  people;  and  when  one  travels  a land 
where  politeness  is  a habit  and  hospitality  the  first 
thought,  the  inconveniences  of  laggard  progress  ap- 
pear inconsequential.  It’s  an  old,  old  town,  this 
Maracaibo,  established  far  back  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury (1529),  and  bearing  the  added  distinction  of 
having  been  sacked  by  that  industrious  buccaneer, 
Henry  Morgan,  in  the  seventeenth.  Nearer  our  day, 
it  paid  exhausting  tribute  to  another  freebooter,  the 
notorious  Castro,  whose  methods,  if  modern  rather 
than  picturesque,  were  none  the  less  thorough  and 
calamitous. 

There  is  every  natural  reason  why  Venezuela  in 
general,  and  the  country  round  about  Maracaibo  in 
particular,  should  tempt  any  filibuster,  for  with  its 
cocoanuts,  its  sugar,  its  cacao,  its  coffee,  its  divi-divi 
and  copaiba,  not  to  mention  the  bananas  of  which  it 
sent  forth  eleven  million  bunches  the  year  of  my  visit, 
the  treasury  of  the  state  should  be  overflowing.  But 
this  is  reckoning  without  Castro,  the  vainglorious 
though  cunning  upstart,  who,  during  his  reign,  laid 
so  heavy  and  blighting  a hand  upon  the  country’s 


219 


220 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


prosperity  none  dared  to  invest  or  to  develop  lest 
the  grasping  attention  of  the  president  be  attracted. 
Monopoly,  with  this  pirate  in  the  background,  con- 
trolled the  commonest  necessities — salt,  matches,  cat- 
tle ; blackmail  ruled,  levied  by  enough  favoured  politi- 
cal parasites  to  wreck  any  country;  while  the  dank 
dungeon,  San  Carlos,  at  mouth  of  the  harbour, 
frowned  portentous  warning  to  those  who  thought  to 
uphold  their  rights. 

Squeezed  by  Castro,  bullied  by  his  henchmen,  and 
threatened  by  revolution,  Maracaibo  has  begun  to 
live  only  since  this  avaricious  vandal  was  cast  out. 
Poor,  tax-ridden  Venezuela!  first  in  natural  wealth 
among  South  American  countries  and  the  least  devel- 
oped. Perhaps  now,  under  more  honest  and  en- 
lightened administration,  she  may  fulfil  the  destiny 
preordained  by  a wider,  richer  potentiality  than  that 
of  any  of  her  sister  republics. 

As  I found  it,  the  city  on  the  Lake  afforded  ex- 
cellent business  opportunities  for  several  large  ex- 
porting houses  and  enough  trade  to  keep  the  forty- 
five  or  fifty  thousand  people  agreeably  occupied. 
And  that’s  about  as  much  as  Maracaibo  wants,  high 
or  low.  With  the  average  native  able  to  get  along 
comfortably  on  about  ten  cents  a day,  no  very 
serious  effort  is  necessary;  and  truth  to  tell,  no  se- 
rious desire  for  hard  work  is  manifest  in  that  hot 
region  where  the  noon  siesta  lasts  late  and  the  cool 
of  the  adobe  invites  to  relaxation.  In  common 
with  all  South  America,  the  Moorish  architecture 
prevails,  with  its  low,  flat-top  houses,  its  barred  win- 
dows and  its  alluring  patio  or  open  inner  court- 
yard of  flowers  and  refreshing  green — in  Chile  and 


AN  OLD  SCHOOL  SPORTSMAN  221 

the  Argentine,  this  patio  becomes  a charming  resort 
and  a bower  of  beauty  to  catch  the  eye  of  the  passer 
who  spies  it  through  the  open  door  or  gateway.  De- 
spite its  considerable  population  and  commercial  im- 
portance, however,  Maracaibo  is  beyond  the  zone  of 
the  tourist  postcard  and  its  one  hotel  was  unendu- 
rable. But  my  stay  in  town  while  outfitting  was 
made  delightful  through  the  kindness  of  Franz 
Muller,  who  placed  his  attractive  Lake  estate  (in- 
cluding a pet  tiger-cat)  and  its  servants  at  my 
disposal. 

It  was  not,  however,  to  look  upon  its  commercial 
side  that  I went  to  the  Maracaibo  section  of  Vene- 
zuela, but  to  explore  its  Lake  country  and  to  hunt  the 
jaguar,  reported  to  be  plentifully  distributed  on  its 
borders  and  along  its  rivers.  A good  friend  at  Cara- 
cas had  given  me  a letter  to  a grizzled  old  warrior, 
Gen.  B.  Tinedo  Velasco,  depicting  him  as  a hunter 
of  long  local  experience  and  a sportsman  of  the  first 
quality;  and  from  the  time  I met  him  first  until  I 
reluctantly  bade  him  adios,  there  was  no  hour  in  the 
day  in  which  he  did  not  amply  justify  that  opinion. 
He  was  of  the  old  school,  the  General,  gentle  of  heart, 
soft  of  speech,  courtly  in  manner,  prone  to  suffer  in- 
convenience rather  than  miss  opportunity  for  a kindly 
word  or  act,  and  yet  a fighter  withal  who  had  proved 
his  courageous  spirit  and  valiant  heart  to  the  dismay 
of  his  foes  through  several  lively  campaigns. 

Together  we  organized  our  party  while  the  friends 
of  the  General  and  those  who  had  heard  our  project, 
quickly  noised  about,  came  to  advise  and  to  tell  us 
stories  of  the  fury  of  the  “ tigre,”  as  the  jaguar  is 
called.  Every  night  we  gathered  under  the  Gen- 


222 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


eral’s  hospitable  roof  to  hear  the  tales,  apparently 
inexhaustible,  for  every  ranch  making  down  to  the 
Lake  or  having  river  frontage  contributed  its  quota. 
Most  of  the  reports  of  encounters  were  vague  and 
imaginative  and  not  unlike  what  I had  heard  so  far 
away  as  the  Argentine,  but  at  least  one  yarn  was 
novel  and  interesting.  It  told  of  a dog  that,  on  be- 
ing chased  in  the  night  by  a jaguar,  crawled  under 
the  mosquito  netting  enveloping  the  camp  bed  of  its 
master,  where  it  remained  unmolested  by  el  tigre, 
which  had  stopped  short  of  the  netting,  nosing  it  sus- 
piciously but  going  no  farther,  although  the  cower- 
ing dog  was  not  a foot  beyond!  The  beast  was 
finally  frightened  away  by  the  shouts  of  the  awakened 
and  astonished  man. 

Certainly  el  tigre  is  a prolific  theme  at  any  gath- 
ering near  the  jungle  land  of  South  America,  nor  are 
authenticated  instances  wanting  of  its  unquestionable 
ferocity  when  cornered,  but  the  trustworthy  consen- 
sus, as  I have  found  it  from  Mexico  to  the  Argentine, 
added  to  my  own  experience,  maintains  that  it  rarely 
makes  an  unprovoked  attack  on  man.  Its  especial 
fondness  on  the  borders  of  a settlement  is  for  dogs 
and  pigs,  and  in  the  wilderness  peccaries,  tapir,  the 
agouti  and  other  members  of  that  multitudinous  rat 
family  likewise  afford  an  abundant  and  assorted 
menu ; also  it  is  fond  of  fish,  for  which  it  “ angles  ” 
industriously  and  successfully. 

Jaguar  size  and  species  appear  to  create  as  much 
debate  as  their  disposition.  Over  all  its  wide  range 
from  Mexico,  through  Central  America  and  to  almost 
the  southernmost  end  of  South  America,  the  jaguar 
varies  in  temper  and  size  according  to  season,  food 


CROSSING  THE  LLANOS 


THE  TIGRE,  MANY  RELATIVES 


223 


supply,  environment — and  the  imagination  of  the 
beholder.  The  average  native  is  apt  to  report  three 
or  four  species,  and  the  many  highly  coloured  and 
fantastic  books  and  articles  on  animal  life  in  the 
jungles  repeatedly  finding  their  way  into  print  are 
even  less  reliable.  All  jungle  cat  variants  are  called 
tigre  by  the  people:  tigre  of  the  forest,  tigre  of  the 
caves,  tigre  of  the  llanos,  much  to  the  confusion  of 
the  casual  hunter.  My  observation  and  travel  con- 
vince me  that  the  felis  family  is  represented  in  South 
America  by  (1)  jaguar  {Felis  onca),  heaviest  and 
most  powerful  of  the  family  next  to  the  tiger,  having 
a similar  tawny  pelt,  marked  with  black  rosettes  in- 
stead of  black  stripes;  (2)  by  the  puma  {Felis  con- 
color),  incorrectly  called  panther  {Felis  pardus), 
and  lighter  in  structure  than  its  North  American 
cougar  or  mountain  lion  relative,  but  darker  in  color ; 

(3)  by  the  ocelot  {Felis  pardalis),  a smaller  leop- 
ard-like creature,  with  beautiful  black  markings ; and 

(4)  by  several  sizes  and  colourations  of  cats,  from  the 
dimensions  of  our  unlovely  United  States  wild-  or 
bobcat  to  a pretty,  vicious  thing  about  the  size  of  a 
domestic  cat  handsomely  striped  in  black  on  dark 
gray;  and  all  of  them  long  tailed. 

I found  much  variation  in  the  depth  of  the  body 
colour  of  the  jaguar  pelt  and  in  the  size  and  lustre  of 
the  rosettes,  and  incline  to  the  belief  that  this  change- 
ableness is  due  not  to  variation  of  species,  but  to  in- 
fluence of  range  and  health  of  the  animal.  The  hides 
of  the  jaguars  I killed  and  saw  coming  from  the 
llanos  were  of  a lighter  shade  than  those  from  the 
more  heavily  forested  sections.  On  the  upper  Ori- 
noco the  Indians  claim  a black  jaguar,  and  have  thus 


224. 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


misled  two  very  distinguished  travellers — Humboldt 
and  Wallaee,  no  less — as  well  as  a number  of  lesser 
lights,  one  of  whom,  named  Smith,  goes  so  far  in  his 
book  on  Amazon  travel  as  to  not  only  credit  the  local 
fiction,  but  to  give  it  name,  F.  nigra!  Wallace 
records  shooting  one  on  the  crossing  from  Pimichin 
to  Javita  on  the  neck  of  land  which  projects  between 
the  upper  Rio  Negro  and  the  Atabapo,  and  appears 
to  accept  the  Indian  statement.  But  in  my  more  ex- 
tended travel  over  tliis  section,  especially  in  the  north, 
where  the  animal  is  reported  abundant,  I learned 
nothing  to  warrant  a revision  of  natural  history. 
The  black  jaguar,  like  the  black  leopard  or  panther 
of  the  Far  East,  is  a melanic  accident,  a freak,  no 
more,  no  less,  just  as  a black  or  a silver  is,  in  the  first 
instance,  a freak  of  the  red  fox.*  It  corresponds  to 
the  occasional  albino  among  animal  kind.  To  accept 
the  black  jaguar  is  to  fall  a victim  to  local  tradition. 

It  appeared  to  be  quite  generally  the  opinion  at 
the  General’s  that  when  eating  a kill  the  jaguar  is 
invariably  dangerous  to  approach.  But  only  the 
largest  of  them  prey  upon  cattle,  and  much  of  the 
terror  attaching  to  the  name  of  el  tigre  must  be  ac- 
counted for  by  the  impressive  havoc  he  creates  when 
he  does  attack;  for  at  full  strength  he  is,  indeed,  a 

* Repeated  breeding  of  freaks  may  result  in  establishing 
a distinct  class  just  as  we  have  the  “ fancy  ” in  pigeons  and 
dogs.  For  instance,  in  Canada  an  effort  has  been  making 
to  breed  silver  foxes  for  the  market  by  persistently  mating 
the  freaks,  and  one  man  after  long  and  sustained  experiment- 
ing appears  to  have  succeeded.  But  outside  some  of  our 
up-to-date  “ nature  ” books,  eugenics  is  not  yet  recognized 
among  the  four-footed  jungle  folk. 


A RECORD  TROPHY 


225 


powerful  beast,  second  by  only  a little  to  his  more 
royal  brother,  the  real  tiger  of  the  East.  Like  the 
wolf  and  the  cougar,  the  jaguar  sometimes  displays 
the  curiosity  to  follow  without  thought  of  attack,  and 
once  one  came  into  my  night  camp  without  harming 
a thing  or  arousing  any  of  us — evidently  prowling 
for  food.  The  smaller  fry  of  the  felis  family  which 
are  so  lucky  as  to  be  established  near  settlements  vic- 
timize the  local  poultry;  at  times  a single  ocelot  or 
cat  will  wantonly  kill  hundreds  of  chickens  at  one 
visit,  carrying  off  a few  to  apparently  do  naught  else 
than  suck  their  blood.  The  largest  jaguar  of  which 
I ever  heard  was  at  one  of  these  gatherings  at  the 
General’s.  Its  body  measurement  was  6 feet  9 inches 
in  length,  28  inches  in  height,  with  a tail  of  three  feet. 
The  largest  of  five  shot  by  me  measured  7 feet  3 
inches  from  nose  tip  to  tail  end. 

Although  the  range  of  the  jaguar  is  wide,  the 
areas  where  he  can  be  hunted  with  intelligent  direc- 
tion or  a fair  chance  of  success  are  comparatively 
restricted ; confined,  in  a word,  to  the  more  open  sec- 
tions where  he  may  be  chased  with  dogs,  or  to  those 
districts  where,  in  the  dry  season,  water-holes  are  few 
and  far  between.  In  the  open  spots  of  Mexico  and 
Central  America,  on  the  llanos  edges  of  Venezuela 
and  on  the  borders  of  the  Argentine  Gran  Chaco, 
dogs  are  employed,  and  the  jaguar  in  such  a country 
always  takes  to  a tree  to  await  the  arrival  of  the 
man  with  the  gun,  who  has  only  to  walk  up  and  pot 
him  in  the  same  manner  that  some  hunt  the  cougar. 

I confess  I fail  to  find  sport  in  such  target  prac- 
tice on  any  creature,  from  raccoon  fo  cougar,  which 
has  taken  refuge  up  a tree  and  thus  awaits  me  unable 


I 


I 


226  THE  FLOWING  ROAD 

to  escape.  Nor  is  there  much  more  sport  in  sitting 
up  assassin-like  over  a water-hole,  perhaps  the  only 
one  in  the  region,  to  shoot  down  the  beast  when  it 
comes  to  slake  its  thirst.  The  only  excuse  for  killing 
under  such  unfair  conditions  is  either  for  purpose  of 


ridding  a locality  of  its  pests,  or  of  securing  examples 
for  scientific  purposes.  On  the  other  hand,  fair  stalk- 
ing of  the  jaguar  or  of  any  of  the  felis  family  but 
the  lion,  which  lives  in  the  open  country,  is,  except  on 
rare  and  unusual  occasions,  an  impossibility  on  ac-  jl 

count  of  the  jungle  of  its  habitat  and  nature  of  the  j 

beast,  which  is  a skulker.  In  the  dense  cover  of  the  j 

forest  along  the  Road,  if  ever  you  see  a jaguar  it’s  f 


by  merest  chance  of  coming  on  to  him  noiselessly  and 
unexpectedly.  To  hunt  el  tigre  in  such  a country  is 
out  of  the  question.  The  Indians  of  the  wilderness 
give  him  a wide  berth,  if  on  occasion  they  come  on 
his  trail,  for  their  arrows  are  poor  defence  against  so 
powerful  and  active  an  animal.  Moreover,  the  In- 
dian is  not  wasting  precious  arrow  points  on  anything 
not  edible. 

While  being  regaled  thus  in  the  evenings  by  the 
local  raconteurs,  preparations  for  our  expedition 
were  going  forward  during  the  day  at  good  rate. 
Within  a week  everything  was  ready  for  the  start — 
provisions  stoutly  sacked  and  labelled  and  grouped  in 
fifty-pound  lots,  the  better  to  fit  into  the  pack  ham- 
pers borne  by  the  burros — each  man  carrying  his  own 
duffle  or  personal  luggage  rolled  inside  his  hammock 
and  so  tied  on  behind  his  saddle.  Two  articles  of  the 
personal  luggage,  viz.,  the  alpargatas  and  the  chin- 
chorro  (hammock),  are  worthy  of  comment  as  being 


NATIVE  WORKS  OF  ART 


227 


the  two  things  without  which  the  equipment  of  any 
traveller  in  Venezuela  is  incomplete. 

The  alpargata  is  the  common  shoe  of  the  people, 
a kind  of  sandal  with  a leather  sole  and  a cloth  toe 
which  extends  a narrow  band  around  the  heel  to  hold 
it  firmly  on  the  foot;  in  the  back  country  the  sole  is 
made  of  aloe  fibres.  They  are  indispensable  in  camp 
for  those  unaccustomed  to  going  barefooted,  especially 
in  a tropical  country,  and  of  such  utility  that  I am 
never  without  a pair.  They  are  not  handsome,  but  as 
a lounge  and  camp  slipper  they  are  indeed  serviceable. 

On  the  lower  Orinoco,  the  native-made  ham- 
mocks are  of  the  moriche  palm  fibre,  elsewhere,  on 
the  upper  Orinoco,  the  alto  Rio  Negro  and  some  of 
its  branches,  long  and  tough  textile  grasses  furnish 
the  strands.  Some  are  real  works  of  art,  beautifully 
woven  and  decorated  with  bird  plumage;  but  these 
are  far  from  the  markets  and  difficult  to  secure,  as 
they  are  made  for  individual  use  and  not  to  sell.  One 
I succeeded  in  getting  on  the  Negro  is  not  orna- 
mented, but  I have  never  seen  so  fine  a bit  of  ham- 
mock weaving.  Really,  it’s  too  closely  woven  for  cool 
sleeping  in  hot  weather.  It  might  almost  be  com- 
pared to  the  exquisite  handiwork  revealed  in  those 
fine  hats  called  “ Panama,”  which  are  not  and  never 
were  made  on  the  Isthmus,  but  in  Peru  and  Ecuador, 
where  grow  the  palms  that  supply  the  fine  and  en- 
during straw  of  which  they  are  woven.* 

It  was  a part  of  the  General’s  scheme  that  we 


* Attempts  are  making  to  manufacture  these  bats  on 
the  Isthmus  by  importing  the  straw  and  workers,  but  except 
in  coarser  kinds,  with  no  marked  success  at  this  writing. 


228 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


should  await  the  coming  of  the  new  moon,  so  as  to 
adopt  the  infinitely  more  comfortable  idea  of  accom- 
plishing our  longest  stretches  of  travel  by  night  in- 
stead of  by  day;  as  well  as  to  improve  our  chances 
of  securing  game — sitting  up  at  night  over  water-holes 
being  his  plan  for  the  hunting  campaign.  So  it  was 
another  week  after  we  were  ready  before  we  actually 
set  out  for  the  llanos  across  the  Lake.  These  llanos  of 
Venezuela  in  being  more  or  less  watered  and  wooded 
differ  from  those  other  great  plains  of  South  America, 
the  pampas  of  the  Argentine,  which  stretch  away  to 
the  horizon  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see,  flat  and  treeless 
for  the  most  part.  From  directly  back  of  the  moun- 
tain range  which  skirts  practically  all  the  north  coast 
of  Venezuela,  down  to  the  Orinoco  and  the  Apure 
rivers,  and  west  to  Lake  Maracaibo,  they  extend 
broken  only  by  Cordillera  spurs  that  well  nigh  en- 
circle Barquisimeto  before  losing  identity  in  the  great 
Andes,  where  it  terminates  to  the  south  of  the  Lake. 

There  are,  so  it  is  officially  claimed,  almost  four  or 
five  hundred  rivers  flowing  into  the  one-hundred-and- 
twenty-five-mile,  bottle-shaped  Lake  Maracaibo, 
whose  shores  at  the  neck  on  the  north  are  separated 
in  places  by  no  more  than  seven  miles,  and  on  the 
south  by  as  much  as  eighty.  Near  one  of  these  rivers 
we  landed  on  the  east  where  a fringe  of  those  tropic 
first-aids  to  beauty,  the  cocoa-nut  palm,  half  concealed 
and  wholly  glorified  some  scattering  houses  pictu- 
resquely distributed  in  the  half-lights  among  the  trees 
in  the  background.  Closer  view,  however,  dispelled 
the  illusion  and  uncovered  half  a dozen  thatched  huts 
of  simplest  construction.  It  was  a little  Indian  set- 
tlement of  the  kind  common  to  the  lagoons  and  the 


THE  BURRO  THAT  WOULDN’T  DROWN  229 


bays  and  the  rivers  of  Venezuela,  which  grow  a small 
quantity  of  “ yucca  brava  ” (the  manna  of  South 
America,  and  in  such  respect  a correlative  of  the 
East  Indian  sago  plant),  do  a little  fishing  and  much 
talking  and  smoking. 

We  came  near  to  drowning  several  of  our  pack 
animals  in  the  landing  and  so  sustaining  a serious 
delay  at  the  very  outset.  Rather  a rough  sea  was 
running,  lifting  the  shallow  steam-kettle  boat  high  to 
smack  her  down  again  violently  so  that  burros  and 
horses  were  tossed  about  in  disordered  alarm,  and  nat- 
urally much  confused  when  prematurely  thrown  over- 
board by  the  unintelligent  captain  for  the  purpose  of 
swimming  them  ashore.  Instead  of  heading  inshore, 
some  of  them  headed  out,  while  a burro  circled  and  cir- 
cled, the  waves  breaking  over  his  head  as  he  sank  so  his 
nose  alone  was  visible.  Only  prompt  action  in  send- 
ing out  canoes  saved  this  little  burden  bearer  as  well 
as  two  or  three  of  the  horses ; yet  apparently  the  expe- 
rience did  them  no  harm.  Starting  a few  hours 
later,  that  selfsame  burro  covered  forty-seven  miles 
from  two  o’clock  until  midnight  without  food  and 
practically  without  rest,  also  without  water  until  noon 
of  the  day  following,  carrying  both  pack  baskets  full 
and  behind  them  one  of  the  party  who  certainly 
weighed  all  of  one  hundred  and  thirty  or  one  hundred 
and  forty  pounds ! 

For  three  days  we  made  our  way  back  across  the 
llanos,  maintaining  a good  average  of  pace,  as  our 
mounts  were  of  that  excellent  thirteen  to  fourteen- 
hand  bronco  type  native  to  Venezuela,  which  has  a fox 
trot  that  eats  up  distance  and  is  easy  on  the  rider.  Cu- 
riously, the  Venezuelans  do  not  appear  to  appreciate 


230 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


the  advantage  of  a hard,  smooth  saddle  surface  for 
long,  arduous  riding.  There  is  no  gainsaying  their 
endurance,  however,  for  they  ride  day  in  and  day 
out  and  ride  well,  on  a saddle  somewhat  of  the  Eng- 
lish tree  order,  with  a blanket  or  cloth  or  sheepskin 
belted  a-top  of  it  after  the  fashion  of  that  much-over- 
rated horseman — the  Argentine  gaucho.  Our  long 
rest  we  took  at  noon,  and  for  the  balance  of  the 
twenty-four  hours  kept  on  the  trail — mornings,  late 
afternoons  and  far  into  the  night.  When  the  moon 
went  down,  the  General  got  out  lanterns  and  kept  on 
going;  and  this  was  in  late  January,  before  the  begin- 
ning of  the  seasonal  rains  when  everything  is  shriv- 
elled and  noisy  and  awry. 

Though  the  high  lights  and  the  contorted  vines 
and  the  crackling  brush  gave  a novel  and,  therefore, 
agreeable  vista,  yet  they  parched  the  throat  and 
switched  the  face  as  we  filed  in  and  among  the  crooked 
and  creaking  dead  timber  which  swayed  ominously  in 
every  coppice  we  struggled  through.  How  many 
times  we  stopped  to  readjust  the  packs  in  this  tan- 
glewood!  For  the  longer  time,  however,  we  wound 
over  the  llanos,  dusty  grass  and  cactus  covered 
plains,  now  cutting  through  a bit  of  tearing,  slap- 
ping, noisy  jungle,  now  circling  an  island  of  small- 
tree  groups  in  a sea  of  scorched  vegetation,  and 
again  passing  under  some  high-standing  solitary  tree 
giant,  bearing  strange-shaped  pods  and  often  covered 
with  brilliant  parasitic  flower  growth.  Two  of  these 
especially  attracted  me  as  I rode.  One  bore  a rough 
bark  forming  great  elongated  diamond  sections,  from 
whose  branches  hung  long,  pod-like  pendants  and  a 
yellow  flower.  The  other  was  not  over  thirty  or 


GETTING  THE  PACKS  TOGETHER 


THE  WATER  CARRIER 


THROUGH  THE  PARCHED  LLANOS 


231 


forty  feet  in  height  with  a trunk  tapering  rapidly 
from  about  two  feet  in  diameter  at  the  base  to  not 
over  six  inches.  Another  very  tall  tree  raised  an  um- 
brella-like top  almost  completely  covered  with  little 
blue  flowers ; and  once  in  a while  we  came  to  the  wide- 
spreading,  handsome  ceiba,  each  with  its  abnormal 
clinging  growths,  for  every  tree  has  its  particular 
parasite.  Of  the  cactus,  too,  there  were  many,  and  one 
had  a bristling  trunk  with  prickly  arms  placed  much 
like  the  cross-bars  of  a telegraph  pole. 

Always  with  us  were  the  parrakeets  that  build 
their  mud  nests  in  trees  and  are  forever  screeching, 
besides  many  other  birds  more  agreeable,  though 
doves  of  two  sizes  predominated.  Often  I saw  at 
work  an  industrious  woodpecker,  carpenter  of  the 
woods,  as  the  natives  call  him,  with  his  red  top  busily 
hammering  a tattoo  which  the  dry  condition  of  wood 
and  the  quiet  of  the  air  carried  far.  At  night,  we 
frequently  heard  the  crashing  of  the  plucky  little 
peccaries,  sweeping  past  our  column  in  hurried  flight. 

So  we  pursued  our  course,  cutting  across  savan- 
nahs, filing  through  thickets,  winding  over  and  round 
little  mounts  and  open  parks,  often  coming  to  soil 
quite  sandy;  travelling  ever  as  though  in  a sunken 
territory,  with  only  an  occasional  vista  ahead. 

Finally,  when  the  General  pulled  up  at  what  he 
declared  to  be  our  first  camp,  we  were  in  what  looked 
like  a one-time  river  bottom,  now  entirely  covered 
with  small  trees  and  brush,  here  and  there  one  of 
good  size,  but  not  too  dense  to  prevent  seeing  a fair 
distance.  Beyond  could  be  seen  “ the  monte  ” 
(wooded  upland),  which  is  the  beginning  of  the  foot- 
hills that  reach  back  into  the  mountains  to  the  east. 


232 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


It  was  a confined,  closed-in  sort  of  camping  ground, 
and  seemed  to  suggest  floodland,  insects  and  jaguars; 
the  General,  in  fact,  assured  me  it  was  a famous  ren- 
dezvous for  the  last  two  and  the  General’s  judgment 
was  rarely  at  fault. 

As  I have  said,  the  entire  country  was  dried  up, 
with  no  running  streams,  and  every  living  thing  com- 
pelled to  come  to  the  pools  of  standing  water  spar- 
ingly distributed.  These  were  little  else  than  mud 
holes,  ranging  in  size  from  a dozen  feet  or  so  to  one 
I sat  by  long  and  often  that  was  a good  one  hundred 
feet  long  and  twenty  to  thirty  feet  wide.  Such  as  they 
were,  these  holes  supplied  the  drinking  water  not 
only  for  the  birds  and  the  beasts,  but  for  us  as  well. 

The  outlined  scheme  of  our  hunting  prescribed 
looking  for  tracks  by  day,  and  watching  by  night  at 
the  water-hole  to  which  they  led ; and  after  a thorough 
reconnaissance  of  the  surrounding  country,  opinion 
seemed  unanimous  that  we  were  favourably  located 
for  a successful  trial.  Accompanied  by  one  of  the 
men  to  cut  loose  the  barbed  bush  things  which  en- 
tangled our  feet  and  ensnared  our  clothing,  the  Gen- 
eral and  Alberto,  his  son,  a fine  lad,  set  out  next  day 
in  the  late  afternoon,  each  with  a hammock  and  a 
gourd  of  yellow  water.  Alberto  was  after  meat 
rather  than  a trophy,  so  we  left  him  up  a tree  which 
grows  a sweetish,  plum-like  fruit  the  deer  are  very 
fond  of,  and  trudged  on  till  we  came  to  a rather  large 
M^ater-hole,  where  one  of  the  scouts  claimed  to  have 
found  jaguar  spoor,  though  incidentally  I could  not 
see  it  on  arrival. 

In  the  Far  East,  when  you  sit  up  for  tiger  over 
a kill  or  a bait  or  a water-hole,  even  the  meanest 


AN  UNSTEADY  SHOOTING  PLATFORM  233 


platform  or  staging  upon  which  you  await  is  some- 
thing of  a structure,  while  the  elaborate  “ mecham  ” 
of  India  is  almost  an  architectural  creation;  but  in 
South  America  simplicity  rules.  Merely  you  take  to 
a tree,  and  in  a small  hammock,  which  is  really  nothing 
more  than  a broad  sling  made  especially  for  the  pur- 
pose, you  compose  yourself  for  the  denouement  of  the 
venture.  There  are  serious  faults  in  the  South 
American  method.  The  hammock  does  not  make  a 
steady  shooting  platform,  the  dangling  legs  get  be- 
numbed and  the  position  is  strained  and  uncomfort- 
able ; or,  if  you  lie  in  the  hammock,  you  have  some  diffi- 
culty in  the  last  long  and  silent  hours  of  watching  to 
keep  from  being  lulled  by  its  gentle  rocking  to  that 
bourne  of  the  dolce  far  niente  whence  no  hunter  re- 
turns— unashamed. 

Using  the  dishevelled  roots  of  an  upturned  tree 
as  a step-ladder,  the  General  and  I swung  our  ham- 
mock seats  about  ten  feet  above  ground  to  stout  bam- 
boo at  the  edge  of  a considerable  clump  where  they 
rattled  in  the  breeze,  as  is  the  way  of  the  tough  and 
useful  bamboo,  not  over  twenty  feet  from  the  water- 
hole.  Here,  gently  swaying  as  the  air  stirred  our 
vibrant  supports,  or  checking  the  movement  with 
cautious  hand  every  once  in  a while  as  the  agitation 
grew  to  violence,  we  strained  eye  and  ear  for  jaguar 
sign  from  about  five  in  the  afternoon  until  a couple 
of  hours  past  midnight.  But  no  “ tigre  ” put  in  an 
appearance ; yet,  as  a first  night  vigil  in  such  country 
there  was  plenty  to  see  so  long  as  the  light  lasted. 

For  me  there  is  no  experience  so  fascinating  as 
that  provided  for  the  watcher  near  a dry  season  water- 
hole  during  the  twilight  hours.  Such  a variety  of 


234 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


wild  life  on  the  bank,  and  sueh  a colleetion  of  noises 
as  eome  up  out  of  the  forest  round  you;  the  groaning 
trees ; the  hoarse  quoking  of  herons,  sometimes  inter- 
mingled with  the  roaring  bellow  of  the  monkey 
howler.  The  birds  begin  to  assemble  as  the  sun  goes 
down;  doves  in  groups  eurtsey  to  the  dirty  water  and 
raise  a thankful  head  at  each  libation;  small  herons 
stand  dejected  and  watchful;  a beautifully  tinted 
rosy  spoonbill  explores  the  muck;  stilt  and  rail-like 
birds  dart  busily  hither  and  thither;  a brown-red  gal- 
linule  with  pert  black  little  tail  industriously  picks 
his  way  entirely  around  the  edge  of  the  hole,  utterly 
oblivious  to  the  active  and  somewhat  noisy  life  round 
about.  Now  and  then  the  deep  croak  of  the  great 
heron  is  heard  as  it  flies  overhead  or,  in  nearby  tree, 
sounds  its  raucous  note.  If  you  look  sharp  you’ll 
see,  like  as  not,  just  as  dusk  is  coming  on,  a small 
band  of  the  black-bodied  and  feathery  topknotted 
“ paujil  ” (curassow)  stealing  forth  with  stilted  step 
and  bobbing  head,  perhaps  occasionally  exploding  a 
disproportionately  small  whistle,  on  the  way  to  its 
post-prandial  drink. 

As  dusk  draws  closer,  the  birds,  except  for  the 
ugly  heron,  silently  withdraw,  and  small  animal  life 
begins  to  show.  A black  squirrel  (a  beauty  I never 
saw  out  of  Venezuela)  comes  jerkily  upon  the  scene; 
the  always-present  rodents  are  represented  by  a 
brownish  creature  which  noses  along,  sitting  up  once 
in  a while  like  a prairie-dog  to  safeguard  against  overt 
attack;  a deer,  sometimes  two  or  even  three,  will  sud- 
denly stand  before  you  across  the  hole,  and  you  won- 
der how  that  large,  beautiful  thing  could  have  ap- 
peared without  your  hearing  until  you  note  enrap- 


WILD  LIFE  AT  THE  WATER-HOLE  235 


tured  its  absolutely  silent  and  dainty  approach  to 
the  water — ears  sounding  the  air  like  alert  sema- 
phores, the  great  eyes  shining  in  their  liquid  beauty. 
As  it  stands,  a listening,  exquisitely  modelled  image, 
with  nose  reaching  forward  inquiringly,  a small  herd 
of  the  ever-moving,  ever-bustling  peccaries  goes 
scampering  by  rattling  the  dry  brush  as  though  under 
a cavalry  charge — and  you  tingle  with  admiration  at 
the  marvellous  scent  of  the  deer,  which,  unperturbed 
by  the  sound,  knows  it  for  that  of  no  enemy  and 
awaits  its  passing  unafraid. 

For  a while  after  the  tropical  night  has  drawn  its 
curtain  upon  the  scene,  new  forms  stand  out  before 
your  tense  eyes,  mostly  the  creatures  of  your  fancy, 
for  the  wild  denizens  have  gone  their  various  ways. 
Perhaps,  as  you  stare,  once  in  a while  a pair  of  glow- 
ing orbs  loom  suddenly  in  the  darkness  like  the  magic 
picture  of  the  lantern  materializing  out  of  space; 
and  your  grasp  tightens  on  the  rifle  in  thought  that 
maybe  at  last  your  victim  has  arrived.  But  it  is  only 
one  of  the  smaller  cat  tribe  come  for  its  belated 
drink,  or  to  prowl  the  jungle  lest  perchance  some  un- 
wary agouti  may  recklessly  have  strayed  from  its 
hole,  or  a foolish  paujil  delayed  its  roosting  to  fur- 
nish toothsome  meal  for  an  active,  lustful  member 
of  the  felis  family.  At  last  all  the  jungle  world 
seems  sleeping,  save  the  insects,  and  you  sway  gently 
in  the  breeze  among  the  creaking  bamboo,  with  ear 
cocking  at  every  other  sound  and  skin  writhing  un- 
der the  insect  attack,  which  you  dare  not  repel  too 
energetically. 

Now  it  is  when  night  has  really  settled  that  the 
senses  concentrate  in  wary  fixity  to  detect  the  stealthy 


236 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


approach  of  your  quarry.  With  the  close  of  day,  in 
a word,  you  cease  to  be  the  absorbed  student  of  wild 
life  going  about  its  business  uneonsciously  before  you, 
and  become  an  animal  of  destruetion.  It  is  no  longer 
sport;  it  is  now  merely  the  getting  of  a trophy — no 
less ; and  only  the  discomfort  and  the  heavy  odds  and 
the  remoteness  make  the  game  but  a trifle  more  sport- 
ing than  shooting  deer  or  boar  driven  up  to  your  very 
feet,  or  calling  moose,  or  slaughtering  swimming  deer. 

The  blank  night  was  frankly  disappointing  to  us 
all,  since  evidence  of  jaguar  had  been  so  generously 
reported,  yet  we  remained  in  this  camp  several  days 
more,  sitting  up  as  before  over  different  water-holes, 
but  always  with  no  better  result.  And  when  we  had 
exhausted  the  nearby  drinking  places,  and  our  own 
patience,  we  moved  to  another  camp  about  a day  off, 
in  a similar  piece  of  country.  Here  we  scoured  the 
surroundings  for  tracks,  the  scouts  reporting  them 
plentiful,  though,  as  before,  I saw  none  fresh,  which, 
however,  did  not  argue  the  men  mistaken,  because 
the  ground,  hard  and  dry  as  a bone,  was  neither 
retentive  of  footprints  nor  dependable  as  to  their  age. 
Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  hunter’s  breast,  so  again 
we  took  up  our  nightly  vigil  for  the  tigre  which  re- 
fused to  come.  If  we  failed  of  success  it  was  not  for 
lack  of  industry.  Astir  at  daylight,  we  tracked  until 
about  ten,  returning  then  to  camp  to  eat  and  sleep 
until  four  in  the  afternoon,  when  each  went  his  sepa- 
rate way  with  hammock  and  gourd  for  the  night 
watch. 

The  gourd  merits  a chapter  to  itself.  In  whole 
it  is  the  country  canteen,  and  with  its  top  section  re- 
moved becomes  the  ubiquitous  catch-all  and  serve-all 


A WATER-HOLE 

THIS  IS  TYPICAL  OF  THE  KIND  WHERE  WE  SAT  VP  FOR  JAGUAR  AND  FROM  WHICH  WE 
TOOK  OUR  DRINKING  WATER.  IT  WAS  AT  THIS  PARTICULAR  ONE.  ALSO. 

THAT  I SCRAPED  ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  THE  CROCODILE 


DURING  THE  HEAT  OF  THE  DAY  WE  LOAFED  — GENERAL  TINEDO  STANDING  BY  THE  TREE 


HUNTING  THE  FIENDISH  GARRAPATA  237 


utensil  of  the  country  household,  the  common  size 
ranging  between  a large  cup  and  a medium  bowl.  In 
Brazil  it  is  called  cuia  and  decorated  with  elaborate 
but  pleasing  and  indelible  designs;  in  Venezuela  it 
is  calabash  and  mostly  unadorned.  They  grow  on  a 
low  (fifteen  feet),  wide-spreading  tree,  attached  in 
considerable  numbers  to  the  limb  where  it  is  heavy 
and  leafless.  We  were  well  supplied  with  this  native 
water  bottle,  in  all  sizes  and  shapes,  and  to  see  Saturno 
returning  from  the  water-hole  was  a sight  equalled 
only  by  the  itinerant  tinsmith  of  Rio  Janeiro,  who 
carries  on  his  head  and  body  every  pan  conceivably 
of  use  in  the  kitchen.  Saturno  was  our  cook,  a thin, 
gray-bearded,  oldish  chap,  whose  only  garment,  made 
out  of  a sack,  hung  from  his  waist  to  his  knees.  He 
was  always  good-natured,  constantly  suspending  his 
work  at  the  camp-fire  to  look  for  garrapatas,  that 
charter  member  of  South  America’s  trinity  of  insect 
devils — pium,  zancudo,  garrapata. 

By  now  I had  become  fully  acquainted  with  this 
trio.  Known  to  Central  America  and  Mexico  as  the 
red-bug,  the  garrapata  is  the  tick  of  Venezuela,  and 
breeds  in  four  sizes  of  malignance;  the  largest  as 
large  as  a full  grown  bedbug,  the  smallest  little  big- 
ger than  a pen  point.  These  in  all  their  sizes  infest 
the  brush  and  the  grass.  The  low  branches  that  sweep 
your  hat  as  you  ride,  the  bush  that  drags  across  your 
legs  in  the  saddle,  the  grass  through  which  you  walk, 
the  log  upon  which  you  rest,  each  and  sundry,  as  the 
idiom  goes,  supplies  its  quota  of  swarming,  biting  gar- 
rapatas. And  the  smallest  is  the  arch  fiend  of  the  lot, 
for  not  only  is  it  so  tiny  as  to  be  all  but  invisible,  but 
it  burrows  into  your  skin  immediately  upon  contact. 


238 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


Hunting  garrapatas  was  quite  as  much  a business 
of  the  day  as  was  watching  for  jaguar  by  night.  On 
returning  to  the  camp  every  man  went  at  once  to 
the  fire,  where,  divesting  himself  of  all  clothing,  he 
held  the  different  articles  over  the  flames  to  loosen 
the  grip  of  the  insect  so  it  might  be  shaken  off — the 
shirt  being  turned  inside  out  for  this  especial  purifi- 
cation. Then  standing  nude,  search  for  those  on  his 
body  would  be  instituted  by  a fellow  sufferer,  whose 
back  in  turn  he  explored  later.  The  General  brought 
relief  to  many  a companion  and  earned  a memorial 
from  tortured  dry  season  jungle  travellers  in  Vene- 
zuela, by  discovering  that  beeswax  applied  to  the 
garrapata  ere  he  quite  disappears  under  the  skin,  lifts 
him  from  his  prey;  hence  everyone  in  camp  was  pro- 
vided Avith  a ball  of  beeswax,  which  he  rolled  over  as 
much  of  his  anatomy  as  he  could  reach,  while  another 
curried  his  back. 

It’s  easy  to  recognize  the  fever  mosquito  if  you 
can  see  it,  because  instead  of  alighting  on  its  feet  like 
other  respectable  fly  things,  including  its  harmless 
relative,  it  stands  on  its  head  when  settling  upon  you. 
The  impossibility  of  knowing  as  you  sit  in  the  dark 
over  the  stagnant  Avater-hole — a prolific  breeder — - 
whether  the  insect  getting  into  action  on  your  neck 
is  standing  sedately  on  its  feet  or  disreputably  on  its 
head  adds  to  the  diverting  experiences  of  certain  bits 
of  jungle.  There  is,  however,  always  the  comforting 
thought  that  the  farther  you  are  from  town,  the  less 
is  the  likelihood  of  its  depositing  the  yellow  fever 
germ,  but  that  isn’t  to  say  you  may  not  get  one  of 
the  dozen  varieties  of  malarial  fever.  The  speculation 
always  reminded  me  of  the  unfailing  method  I once 


THE  INDUSTRIOUS  ANT 


239 


heard  a witty  after-dinner  speaker  suggest  by  which 
the  delicious  mushroom  can  be  certainly  distinguished 
from  the  deadly  toadstool ; “ if  it’s  a mushroom,”  he 
said,  “you  live;  if  a toadstool,  you  die.”  Of  ants, 
too,  we  had  a plenty — a yellow  one  three-fourths  of 
an  inch  long  such  as  I had  not  before  seen,  a black 
one  about  one-half  inch  in  length,  with  a small  red 
spot  back  of  its  head;  and  both  of  them  bit  like  fury. 
Another  quite  small  ant  with  white  belly  is  entirely 
harmless  to  man,  but  very  destructive  to  trees  and 
buildings.  I have  seen  tree  trunks  and  house  timbers 
so  grooved  and  honeycombed  as  to  be  on  the  verge  of 
collapse.  Think  of  the  industry  of  an  insect  a quar- 
ter-inch long  that  will  thus  tunnel  a six-inch  post. 

The  day  came  round  after  several  more  blank 
nights  when  w^e  left  this  camp  and  moved  to  another, 
still  in  a country  of  the  same  general  character.  This 
time  we  thought  we  certainly  had  found  the  long- 
sought-for  tracks;  some  of  them,  quite  fresh,  were  to 
be  seen  at  two  different  water-holes.  To  double  our 
chances  of  success,  the  General  and  I watched  over 
different  holes,  each  where  the  tracks  were  visible; 
but  the  General  neither  heard  nor  saw  anything  sug- 
gestive of  jaguar,  and  the  nearest  I came  to  good  for- 
tune was  a momentary  view  of  two  large  fire  balls, 
seemingly  too  large  to  belong  to  any  other  of  the  fam- 
ily, which  vanished  while  I stretched  out  a hand  to 
steady  my  swaying  hammock. 

But  I did  have  an  unusual  view  of  the  curassow, 
the  bird  with  grouse  flavoured  flesh,  which  is  scattered 
all  along  the  Flowing  Road  and  in  Venezuela  is 
known  as  paujil.  It  has  a body  about  the  size  of  a 
small  turkey,  short  legs  and  a large  feathery  crest 


240 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


which  shows  whitish  on  the  females  when  raised 
and  black  on  the  males,  who,  in  addition,  have  a 
yellow  knob  at  base  of  the  black  beak.  Six  of  these 
birds  on  this  particular  night  paraded  before  me  for 
a quarter  of  an  hour,  strutting  down  from  cover  to 
the  water  and  occasionally  making  their  call,  that 
is  not  unlike  certain  turkey  notes.  It  is  a shy  bird, 
roosts  high  up  in  the  trees,  and  keeps  to  the  close 
growing  bush  where  the  berries  upon  which  it  feeds 
grow.  I sat  up  three  nights  especially  for  the  pur- 
pose of  watching  the  paujil,  taking  my  camera  in 
the  hope  of  being  able  to  secure  some  photographs, 
but  though  the  birds  performed,  the  light  was  too 
weak,  and  nothing  resulted  on  the  films.  Many  a 
time  I tried  to  photograph  a water-hole  scene,  but 
never  with  any  success,  for  lack  of  light.  One  bird 
grew  quite  friendly  as  my  visits  multiplied,  a prettily 
marked,  chipper  little  fellow  about  the  size  of  a spar- 
row, with  yellow  breast,  brown  wings,  black  strip  to 
the  eye  and  a white  band  circling  round  a brown 
topknot.  It  seemed  greatly  interested  in  my  proceed- 
ings, perching  quite  near  to  regard  me  with  frank 
curiosity  as  it  flicked  from  branch  to  branch. 

We  played  hide  and  seek  with  the  jaguar  in  this 
section — there  being  more  drinking  holes  than  we 
could  cover  at  one  sitting.  Once  I saw  dimly  his  out- 
line in  the  deep  dusk  as  he  slunk  off  to  one  side  to 
leave  me  on  the  very  edge  of  unrealized  expectations 
the  remainder  of  the  night;  and  frequently  I saw  to 
good  advantage  the  smaller  members  of  the  feUs 
group.  But  the  tigre  gave  me  no  opportunity  for 
shooting.  If  it  hadn’t  been  for  the  fascinating  scenes 
of  wild  life  at  sunset  I’d  have  grown  much  bored, 


ACQUAINTANCE  WITH  A CROCODILE  241 


for  at  its  best  I was  none  too  enamoured  of  this  un- 
sporting method  of  getting  a trophy.  Every  day 
offered  some  new  interest  and  none  more  amusing 
than  an  acquaintance  I struck  up  with  a crocodile 
in  the  pool  near  camp  which  supplied  our  drinking 
water.  This  was  an  oval-shaped  pond,  about  fifty 
to  sixty  feet  long  and  thirty  feet  wide,  to  which  I had 
journeyed  several  times  without  seeing  any  large 
life  in  it  when  I searched  the  water  with  a stick  be- 
fore reaching  down  to  fill  the  gourd  by  aid  of  which 
I made  my  ablutions  on  the  bank.  One  day,  as  I 
stooped  with  my  gourd,  I glimpsed  the  end  of  a 
snout  and  two  glassy  eyes  staring  at  me  about  twenty 
feet  off ; and  so  we  remained  for  minutes,  regarding 
each  other — I careful  to  make  no  sudden  move. 

Let  me  interpolate  here  for  the  benefit  of  those 
desirous  of  studying  wild  life,  never  to  approach 
abruptly  or  make  sudden  movements  of  any  kind,  for 
the  sake  of  safety  as  well  as  for  the  sake  of  observation. 
I am  convinced  that  three-quarters  of  the  time  a beast 
charges  or  a snake  attacks,  fear  of  you  rather  than 
aggression  is  the  compelling  impulse ; the  creature  acts 
in  a spirit  of  self-defence. 

While  we,  the  croc,  and  I,  stared  motionless  at 
one  another,  many  little  creatures  came  forth  fur- 
tively— lizards,  great  spiders,  a long-necked  tortoise; 
it  is  nothing  less  than  amazing  what  an  amount  of 
life  you  will  see  in  the  jungle  if  you  simply  remain  still 
and  watch.  On  this  day  of  our  introduction,  the 
croc,  disappeared  noiselessly  the  instant  I arose  from 
my  squatting  position,  but  before  moving  camp  we 
grew  to  such  terms  of  friendliness  that  he  would  re- 
main on  the  surface  an  apparently  interested  spec- 


242 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


tator  of  niy  bath.  No  doubt  had  he  recognized  in 
me  a disciple  of  the  new  nature  school,  he’d  forthwith 
have  confided  his  woes  over  the  restricted  hunting 
field  and  how  he  happened  in  that  pond,  and  why 
he  wasn’t  holed  up  in  his  dry  season  slumber  like  the 
majority  of  well-regulated  crocs,  in  country  such  as 
this,  instead  of  frivolling  with  an  inquisitive  wanderer. 

Perhaps  he  was,  indeed,  so  minded  when  once  or 
twice  he  suddenly  sank  from  view  in  the  middle  of 
the  pool  as  I stooped,  dipping  water  at  the  edge, 
but  if  so  I fear  I did  not  encourage  his  advances  as 
should  a true  interpreter  of  wild  life,  for  on  such 
occasions  I always  stepped  back  from  the  muddy 
waters  to  the  top  of  the  bank.  All  of  which  prompts 
another  suggestion  to  those  who  would  adventure 
among  tropical  jungles — if  you  would  not  be  a can- 
didate for  the  “ though-lost-to-sight-to-memory-dear 
class,”  locate  the  spot  where  the  croc,  of  the  pool  or 
the  river  bank  is  or  is  not  before  you  stretch  your 
arm  to  dip  up  water;  so  long  as  you’ve  got  your  eye 
on  him  you  needn’t  fear  the  crocodile,  but  keep  a sharp 
watch  when  he  goes  out  of  sight  in  dirty  water. 

They  say  washing  in  the  water  of  these  mud-holes 
is  likely  to  give  you  fever,  but  I simply  had  to  take  a 
chance;  I was  too  uncomfortably  in  need  of  a bath. 
Walking  in  such  a country  at  such  a season  is  soiling 
business.  It  was  as  drink  that  the  w'ater  really 
offended.  Of  course,  we  filtered  and  boiled  and 
charged  it  heavily  with  lemon  or  orange  and  sugar — 
anything  to  destroy  its  natural  flavour.  The  Gen- 
eral had  taught  Saturno  to  make  quite  a palatable 
orangeade  kind  of  drink  upon  which  we  came  to  rely. 
In  parenthesis  I will  add  that  except  for  the  real  wil- 


CALLING  ON  THE  CAVE  TIGRE 


243 


derness  lover,  or  one  glad  to  pay  heavily  in  bodily  dis- 
comfort for  the  chance  to  observe  strange  wild  life, 
there  is  no  delight  in  such  tropical  camping. 

After  more  days  of  fruitless  searching  and  nights 
of  patient  watching,  we  abandoned  sitting  up  over 
water-holes  and  the  section  which,  promising  so  much 
had  yielded  so  little,  and  journeyed  into  a region 
where  the  General  said  a tigre  lived  in  caves.  This 
proved  rather  an  attractive  bit  of  country  with  open 
spots  scattered  in  the  forest  further  broken  by  little 
wooded  hills  and  shallow  gullies. 

Here  we  had  finally  the  most  comfortable  camp  of 
our  trip  and  I was  much  amused  at  the  process  of 
evolution.  On  the  day  of  arrival  we  simply  dumped 
everything  in  the  sand;  sweeping  much  of  the  brush 
away  and  burning  over  the  ground  to  kill  the  insects 
being  the  only  camping  preparations  made.  The  next 
day  a canvas  fly  was  set  over  our  hammocks;  the 
third  day  another  one  covered  the  culinary  depart- 
ment and  Saturno;  two  days  later  a rack  for  the 
dishes  was  made,  and  a few  days  before  breaking  camp 
a stationary  dining  table  and  benches  were  constructed 
of  lashed  poles  set  upon  crotched  uprights. 

In  caves  which  were  really  enlarged  burrows 
opening  into  the  gullies,  the  tigre  was  reported  to 
have  its  abode,  and  plenty  of  tracks  were  plainly 
visible  here  where  the  soil  was  yielding.  At  several 
of  the  caves  our  solitary  dog  sniffed  suspiciously  and 
occasionally  whined  aff rightedly,  backing  away  and 
stubbornly  refusing  to  be  brought  up  to  the  work  of 
investigation;  but  bejmnd  such  signs  our  four  days’ 
efforts  resulted  in  no  more  here  than  at  the  water- 
holes.  I tried  building  fires  at  the  mouths  of  the 


24-4 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


caves  where  the  tracks  were  freshest,  but  if  there  was 
tigre  he  w’as  smoke  proof.  Only  an  occasional  cave 
was  large  enough  for  me  to  enter  with  any  freedom 
of  movement,  and  such  as  I explored  on  hands  and 
knees,  thrusting  a burning  brand  before  me,  yielded 
neither  sight  nor  sound  of  jaguar.  Yet  glowing  re- 
ports continued  to  be  brought  daily  into  camp  by  the 
deer  hunters,  who  kept  us  easily  in  more  meat  than 
we  could  eat  of  a smallish  white  tail  with  face  like 
the  moluccan  and  a sporting  pair  of  antlers  rather 
hea%w  for  their  spread.  Only  the  General  and  I 
clung  steadfastly  to  pursuit  of  the  elusive  jaguar, 
going  out  by  dawn  and  by  night. 

Each  hunter’s  return  was  signal  for  the  gathering 
of  all  in  camp  to  hear  his  dramatic  recital  given  to 
its  minutest  detail.  Invariably  tigre  played  a lead- 
ing role.  One  hunter  had  found  the  dead  carcass  of 
a tapir  (long  dead,  I discovered  next  day)  ; another 
heard  tigre  gnashing  its  teeth!  another  had  remained 
in  his  tree  fearful  lest  the  tigre  he  heard  growling 
nearby  should  get  him!  Scarcely  a man  returned  to 
camp  but  what  was  sure  he  had  heard  either  the  tigre 
or  the  “ lione,”  as  they  called  the  puma. 

A few  days  more  of  this  unrequited  casting  con- 
vinced me  that  however  many  jaguar  might  roam  the 
country  at  other  times,  to  seek  farther  in  the  dry  sea- 
son was  wasting  time — a conclusion  supported  by  our 
having  found  not  one  tigre-killed  deer.  Therefore, 
wishing  to  get  down  the  Apure  River  before  the  rains 
began,  I suggested  returning,  and  the  General  agree- 
ing, we  broke  camp  instanter.  I truly  believe  the 
dear  old  man,  who  always  called  me  Don  Gaspar, 
had  endured  the  discomfort  of  these  many  days  more 


ALBERTO  AND  REGULO  BRINGING  IN  A DEER 


THE  SIMPLE  HOUSE  OF  THE  VENEZUELAN  LLANERO 


THE  LOVELY  ROSA  DE  MONTE 


245 


from  a sense  of  com'tesy  than  because  he  derived 
pleasure.  Not  that  he  failed  to  enjoy  the  hunting, 
for  he  did,  like  the  hale  old  man  he  was,  that  at  sixty- 
eight  could  not  be  outridden  by  any  of  us  on  the  hard, 
continuous  marching,  or  outstayed  on  the  uncom- 
fortable tree  hammock. 

Our  return  road,  travelled  chiefly  at  night  as  be- 
fore, took  us  into  a new  country  to  the  eastward, 
partly  through  pieces  of  forest  and  jungle  and  partly 
across  the  llanos.  Near  occasional  outcroppings  of 
malpais-like  rock  we  saw  a fibrous  giant  of  a pine- 
apple kind  of  plant,  six  to  eight  feet  high  and  with  a 
spread  of  over  twelve  to  fifteen  feet,  which,  the  Gen- 
eral said,  supplies  the  Indian  with  his  native  thread. 
The  country  was  dry  as  punk,  and  as  we  rode,  the 
clatter  of  the  bamboo  swinging  to  the  wind  rose  above 
all  sounds  save  that  made  by  the  leather-lunged 
“ guacharaca,”  a bird  which  runs  a scale  having  a 
top  note  quite  unparalleled  except  by  the  calliope. 
But  I shall  remember  longest  the  “ rosa  de  monte,” 
a brilliant  flower  the  General  pointed  out  to  me  on 
the  hillside  which  opened  to  reveal  vivid  scarlet  leaves 
veined  in  lighter  crimson  and  a white  fringed  petal 
bending  outward  from  the  centre. 

Drawing  near  the  Lake  we  came  to  several  small 
ranchos — humblest  of  human  habitations — consisting 
of  four  upright  poles  supporting  a palm-thatched 
roof.  Sometimes  these  crude  abodes  have  sides,  as 
often  they  are  open,  and  some  I passed  at  another 
time  on  the  llanos  from  Valencia  to  the  Apure  were 
cruder  still.  Here  live  the  llaneros,  a contented  lot, 
as  a whole,  who  tend  the  cattle  and  know  no  greater 
luxury  than  an  occasional  meat  and  vegetable  stew 


246 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


called  “ sancocho  ” in  Venezuela  and  “ puchero  ” in 
Argentine,  where  it  is  a favourite  of  the  gauchos.  At 
one  of  these  ranchos,  the  mother  of  several  naked, 
playing  kiddies  could  not  tell  me  her  age;  with  her 
mouth  shut  she  looked  twenty,  but  any  age  with  it 
open,  for  she  had  lost  all  her  upper  front  teeth! 
Nothing  could  be  simpler  than  the  domestic  economy 
of  such  ranchos;  hammocks  are  the  beds,  gourds  and 
cocoanut  shells  the  utensils,  and  all  outdoors  a dump- 
ing ground.  The  only  decorative  thing  I saw  was  a 
vine-made  cage  holding  a bright  and  talkative  mem- 
ber of  the  oriole  family,  which  was  so  tame  the  woman 
could  handle  it. 

Thus,  stopping  here  and  there  to  note  some  bird 
or  plant  or  tree,  we  came  to  the  Lake  again.  So  far 
as  concerned  el  tigre  the  trip  was  a failure,  but  it  was 
none  the  less  interesting  and  well  worth  while  if 
only  for  the  pleasure  of  the  General’s  companionship. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
DOWN  THE  PORTUGUESA 


Our  failure  to  dislodge  jaguar  in  the  easterly 
Lake  country  appeared  to  bother  the  General  a whole 
lot  more  than  it  did  me,  and  on  our  return  to  Mara- 
caibo he  set  inquiry  afoot  as  to  prospects  on  the 
west  side,  securing  information  no  more  encouraging 
than  that  the  section  from  which  we  had  just  returned 
was  considered  second  to  none  for  such  game.  Of 
course  I had  no  thought  of  giving  up  without  another 
try  in  north  Venezuela,  and  having  heard  of  the 
Portuguesa  River  as  a territory  much  favoured  by 
el  tigre,  decided  on  descending  that  way  to  the  lower 
Orinoco  instead  of  again  crossing  the  llanos  from 
Cagua  as  I had  planned.  Thus  resolved,  I arrived, 
in  due  course  of  steamer  and  railway  travel,  at  Bar- 
quisimeto,  connected  with  Tucacas  at  the  sea  by  a 
short  railroad. 

Here  I had  no  difficulty  whatever  in  assembling 
my  simple  equipment,  or  in  securing  the  two  horses 
which  were  to  carry  me  and  Chavez,  the  native  picked 
up  where  I bought  the  animals,  as  well  as  the  small 
outfit  of  supplies  divided  between  us  and  stowed  in 
the  saddle  bags. 

Like  her  sister  towns,  Maracaibo  and  Valencia, 
Barquisimeto  came  into  life  about  the  middle  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  Unlike  either  of  the  others,  how- 
ever, she  sits  upon  a plateau  facing  the  ridge  which 
divides  the  streams  flowing  into  Lake  Maracaibo  on 
the  west  from  those  emptying  on  the  south — finally 


247 


248 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


into  the  Apure — that  northerly  division  of  the  Road 
whose  branches  reach  like  veins  throughout  all  this 
western  section.  With  a little  valley  at  its  feet, 
nearby  the  enveloping  mountains — whence  comes 
much  of  the  raw  material  for  its  special  industry 
of  hammock  and  rope  manufacture — Barquisimeto 
appeared  about  the  busiest  of  Venezuelan  towns,  and 
the  coolest  barring  Caracas.  Maracaibo  does  not  rank 
in  the  comparative  cool  class:  always  it  is  hot  in  the 
village  by  the  Lake. 

There  are  two  ways  of  reaching  the  Portuguesa 
from  the  north — (1)  by  rail  to  Valencia  from  Puerto 
Cabello,  thence  by  saddle  across  the  llanos  to  San 
Carlos  and  so  on  south  to  San  Rafael;  or  (2)  from 
Tucacas  on  the  sea  by  rail  to  Barquisimeto  and  so 
by  horse  through  an  opening  in  the  hills  to  Cojedes, 
just  below  San  Carlos.  I chose  the  latter  route,  prob- 
ably also  the  longer,  having  already,  in  a previous 
year,  made  a ten-day  crossing  of  the  plains,  horseback 
through  Calabozo,  its  midway  metropolis,  to  San 
Fernando  de  Apure. 

It’s  an  attractive  ride  from  Barquisimeto  through 
el  Altar  to  the  Cojedes,  a shallow  river  about  one  hun- 
dred feet  wide,  easily  forded  as  I saw  it,  but  which 
swells  to  considerable  of  a stream  after  the  rains.  We 
were  three  days  on  the  journey  that  need  not  con- 
sume half  so  much  time  if  you  keep  going,  for  it  is 
little  over  forty  miles;  but  I loitered  along  the  road, 
spending  half  a day  where  the  pass  winds  through 
the  small  Cordillera  trying  to  get  a good  look  at  a 
“ campanero,”  or  bell  bird,  whose  abrupt  metallic  call 
sounded  high  and  loud  in  the  adjoining  forest.  Un- 
like the  Venezuelan  variant  of  the  oriole,  the  cam- 


THE  SEASON  FOR  LLANOS  TRAVEL  249 


panero  shuns  the  settlements  and  lives  entirely  on  the 
forest  edge,  where  he  is  prone  to  seek  the  top  of  a tall 
tree,  from  which  he  sends  his  ringing  note  repeatedly. 
Whenever  I heard  it,  mostly  on  the  lower  Orinoco, 
the  bird  was  fairly  close,  but  the  volume  and  pene- 
trating clearness  of  the  note  led  me  to  believe  that 
it  will  carry  a mile  under  favourable  atmospheric  con- 
ditions in  the  jungle.  I never  saw  a campanero  in 
captivity  or  heard  of  one  being  killed,  as  the  bird  is 
a great  favourite  with  the  natives,  who  make  astonish- 
ing claims  for  the  carrying  power  of  its  bell. 

The  little  river  we  left  at  the  pass,  Chavez  as- 
sured me,  empties  into  the  larger  Tinaco,  which  in 
turn  flows  into  the  Portuguesa,  thus  at  high  water 
offering  another  route  to  the  Apure  without  the  ride 
to  San  Rafael.  Col.  Duane,  who  passed  through  el 
Altar  in  1823  on  his  trip  from  Caracas  to  Bogota, 
makes  the  same  claim,  if  I rightly  recall  the  inter- 
esting and  informing  record  he  has  left  for  those  that 
enjoy  tales  of  travel  in  out-of-the-way  places.  But  I 
had  no  time  for  experimenting;  moreover,  the  rivers 
were  not  full,  as  it  was  April  and  only  the  beginning 
of  the  rain,  which  proved  most  agreeable  after  the 
dust-laden,  arid  llanos  to  the  west.  When  I had 
crossed  the  llanos  in  February,  everything  was 
parched,  save  the  moriche  palm.  Now,  with  only  a 
week  or  so  of  rain,  already  a notable  change  in  the 
foliage  could  be  seen,  while  the  thermometer  ranged 
from  88°  to  92°  in  the  day  and  from  60°  to  65°  at 
night.  Indeed,  in  early  weeks  of  the  wet  season  is 
the  best  time  to  travel  the  llanos  provided  you  are 
inured  to  tropical  weather  and  have  the  temperament 
and  the  physical  hardihood  to  withstand  its  miasmatic 


250 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


influence.  Yet,  even  in  the  dust,  I always  enjoyed 
those  great,  grass  plains  which  extend  from  the 
Orinoco  to  the  north  coast  range  and  west  to  the 
Cordilleras  of  the  Andes.  There’s  something  ap- 
pealing to  me  in  the  sweep  of  the  land  with  its  patches 
of  woodland,  its  groves  of  moriche  palm — the  almost 
invariable  pointer  to  water  and  the  isolated  hut  of  its 
native  cowboj^ — the  llanero. 

Life  is  no  sinecure  for  the  llanero,  a hard  work- 
ing chap  who  gives  heavily  for  what  he  gets  out  of 
life.  Usually  in  small  companies,  at  the  ratio  of 
about  one  for  every  sixty  head  of  cattle,  he  wanders 
hither  and  thither,  content  to  home  where  he  throws 
down  his  skins  for  the  night  or  in  the  primitive  palm 
rancho  he  builds  when  stationed.  In  view  of  his 
lonely  life  it  is  not  surprising  he  is  as  superstitious 
and  as  fearful  of  spirits  as  the  Indian  of  the  moun- 
tain, or  that  he  is  ever  apprehensive  of  the  will-o’-the- 
wisp  which  dances  over  the  llanos  under  certain  at- 
mospheric conditions.  If  within  reach,  he  attends  the 
fiesta  and,  no  doubt,  gets  drunk  with  the  rest  of 
llanos  mankind,  for  such  is  the  popular  form  of  cele- 
bration among  the  peasantry.  Fiestas  come,  where 
the  tonca  bean  grows,  frequently  in  February  and 
March,  the  time  of  plenty,  but,  in  May,  when  the 
crops  are  over  and  the  wet  season  sets  in  to  last  until 
July  or  August,  sometimes  even  into  September,  life 
grows  sombre  indeed. 

Not  the  least  cause  of  his  woes  is  the  jaguar,  who 
takes  toll  of  the  pigs  and  the  dogs  wherever  a settle- 
ment of  llaneros  raise  their  ranchos  for  permanent 
abode  near  water  enough  to  assure  a crop  of  plan- 
tains, which,  with  coffee  and  “came  seca  ” (dried 


DECREASE  IN  CATTLE 


251 


meat) , constitute  the  fundamentals  of  his  daily  menu. 
Fresh  beef  is  a luxury.  It’s  a day  of  rejoicing  when 
the  llanero  has  a sancocho,  for  cattle  are  not  killed  for 
the  feeding  of  such  as  he;  hence,  the  ’longshoreman 
fares  better,  for  he  makes  sancocho  of  any  kind  of 
fish,  including  sharks,  which  he  has  always  at  hand. 

From  the  time  we  came  out  of  el  Altar  all  the  way 
to  Gunare,  we  rode  through  the  edge  of  the  llanos, 
frequently  crossing  small  streams  with  thickly  wooded 
banks.  Now  and  again  we  came  to  those  canals  or 
canos,  and  ponds  typical  of  these  llanos,  which  are 
quite  shallow  in  the  dry  season,  sometimes  disappear- 
ing, but  in  the  time  of  rains  are  full  and  even  bois- 
terous. As  when  crossing  to  Calabozo,  I was  sur- 
prised at  the  comparatively  few  cattle  in  sight  be- 
cause of  the  many  being  kept  on  the  lower  llanos 
south  and  east  of  the  Apure  River  during  the  dry  sea- 
son. Yet  is  it  a fact  that  there  are  fewer  cattle  on 
these  plains  than  formerly,  before  Castro  so  sapped 
the  industrial  vitality  of  the  people  by  his  greedy  and 
unscrupulous  methods. 

San  Rafael  is  a tiny  settlement  mostly  church,  and 
accounted  the  port  of  the  Portuguesa,  but  I decided 
to  go  on  six  miles  to  Gunare,  where  I thought  the 
chances  better  for  getting  provisions  and  an  outfit. 
’Twas  through  here  also  the  road  ran  which  Pro- 
fessor Bingham  and  Dr.  Hamilton  Rice  travelled  to 
Bogota,  whence  the  latter  made  his  important  trip 
across  country  to  the  headwaters  of  the  Uaupes. 
Churches,  including  some  picturesque  old  ones,  remain 
the  chief  impression  of  the  several  little  villages 
along  my  fifty-mile  ride  down  this  trail  from  the  Co- 
jedes.  Acarigua,  a short  distance  below  Cojedes,  was 


252 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


the  only  town  looking  prosperous;  in  faet  (official  re- 
ports to  the  contrary  notwithstanding),  it  appeared 
to  my  eye  more  important  and  populous  than  Gu- 
nare,  which  w'as  a sorry  disappointment  despite  its  two 
thousand  people,  and  reputation  of  being  “ the  ” city 
of  this  corner  of  the  llanos.  With  its  careworn  air 
and  big  church  it  did  not  look  a promising  outfitting 
point,  as  we  rode  in,  but  Chavez  had  said  he  knew 
here  just  the  man  for  me,  and  so  the  town’s  hopeless 
appearance  gave  me  no  concern  as  we  ambled  through 
the  adobes,  for  I had  grown  to  depend  on  what  Chavez 
said ; indeed  he  impressed  me  so  favourably  I sought 
to  induce  him  to  go  with  me,  for  every  other  Vene- 
zuelan, unless  born  a llanero,  is  at  home  on  the  water ; 
but  he  had  no  stomach  for  it. 

On  the  day  following  our  arrival  he  fetched  me 
an  unusually  tall,  slender,  and  very  dark  Indian  who 
wore  an  enormous  grass  hat  nearly  covering  his  shoul- 
ders, and  a pair  of  blue  canvas  trousers  hoisted  mid- 
way between  bare  ankles  and  knees.  Named  Ignacio, 
he  belonged  to  that  class  of  wanderers  who,  though 
willing  and  able  to  put  in  day  after  day  at  hard  pad- 
dling, can  rarely  be  induced  for  love  or  money  to  work 
on  land.  There  are  many  such  in  Venezuela  that 
travel  the  rivers  catching  fish  and  birds;  or  roam  the 
land  getting  an  odd  job  here  or  there,  while  the  plan- 
tains, the  bananas,  the  “ pawpaw”  (breadfruit),  and 
the  “ palo  de  vaca  ” (cow  tree)  furnish  food  and  milk 
for  which  they  have  but  to  reach  forth  a hand;  yet, 
curiously  enough,  great  numbers  of  them  live 
wretchedly. 

Chavez  had  the  beans  and  came  seca  and  coffee 
delivered  at  the  house  of  his  friend  where  we  slept. 


INDIAN  RIVER  ROVERS 


253 


and  on  the  second  day  after  arrival,  we  packed  it  all 
on  one  horse  to  Ignacio’s  falca,  and  within  an  hour 
thereafter  had  started  on  our  way. 

The  Portuguesa  is  perhaps  the  largest  of  several 
tributaries  of  the  Apure  flowing  southeasterly 
through  these  western  llanos,  and  in  its  course,  which 
we  followed  for  ten  days,  receives  several  little  rivers 
on  its  own  account,  mostly  from  the  north  on  its  up- 
per reaches,  but  near  its  mouth  others  enter  from  the 
south  bank.  In  truth,  by  the  time  you  come  finally 
to  the  Apure,  it’s  hard  to  say  whether  you  officially 
are  on  the  Portuguesa  or  one  of  the  contributors  to 
its  volume.  If  it  fills  its  banks  at  high  water  it  must 
be  considerable  of  a river,  and  it  was,  in  truth,  al- 
ready quite  a stream  as  we  neared  San  Fernando  de 
Apure,  though  where  we  launched  our  canoe  it  had 
been  wide  and  shallow.  For  the  greater  part  of  the 
western  half  it  continued  a single,  somewhat  narrow 
channel,  which  wound  around  sandbars,  no  doubt 
fuUy  covered  in  high  water,  or  spread  out  in  shoal  and 
sluggish  stretches  between  low  banks  whose  brush- 
covered  tops  scarce  concealed  the  adjoining  flat  coun- 
try. It  would  take  a lively  imagination,  indeed,  to  de- 
scribe the  Portuguesa  as  a picturesque  waterway;  and 
the  country  through  which  it  flows  is  no  less  monoto- 
nous, Towards  the  western  end  the  banks  are  heavily 
wooded,  but  farther  into  the  llanos,  to  the  south  and 
east,  they  thin  out,  and  brush  and  canebrakes  and 
jungle  become  the  characteristic  covering.  Occa- 
sionally we  met  natives,  sometimes  Venezuelans, 
sometimes  Indians,  mostly  rovers  like  Ignacio,  I de- 
cided; and  we  could  have  lodged  at  a rancho  for  at 
least  three  of  the  nights  on  the  river. 


254> 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


One  rancho  of  a group  where  we  stopped  an 
hour  or  two  in  the  day  was  scarcely  more  than  a 
shed ; four  uprights  with  a covering  of  thatched  palm. 
A loosely  braided,  straw  curtain,  shifted  according 
to  direction  of  wind  and  rain,  offered  only  a little 
protection  against  either,  while  the  moist  spots  in 
the  earth  floor  proved  the  roof  of  slightly  better 
construction.  Most  of  these  ranchos  are  suitable  only 
for  the  hot,  dry  weather  which  prevails  at  intervals 
during  about  half  the  year.  For  the  steady  down- 
pour and  frequent  driving  storms  of  the  rainy  sea- 
son they  are  as  unfitted  as  well  could  be.  It  isn’t 
difficult  to  believe  in  the  Darwinian  theory  of  evolu- 
tion if  you  travel  a little  among  wilderness  people. 

Ignacio  had  asserted  very  confidently  that  we 
should  see  jaguar,  as  did  the  natives  along  the  river, 
but  by  now  I was  accustomed  to  this,  the  customary 
story  of  the  land,  and  took  no  stock  of  it.  Float- 
ing down-stream  as  we  were,  landing  here  and  there 
the  better  to  see  some  bird  that  may  have  attracted 
my  attention,  making  short  side  excursions  in  quest 
of  the  wild  life  I sought  to  study — jaguar  was  but 
an  incident  in  my  trip,  and  as  I have  said,  unless 
you  can  hunt  systematically  with  dogs,  getting  one 
is  chiefly  a matter  of  luck.  Yet  luck  was  with  me,  as 
j^ou  shall  see. 

Late  one  afternoon,  while  we  paddled  slowly, 
cautiously,  around  a bend  in  the  wake  of  what  I 
thought  to  be  a great,  white  jabiru  stork  which  had 
flown  from  the  river  up  a small  currentless  cano 
that  twisted  back  into  the  llano,  my  eyes  fell  sud- 
denly on  jaguar,  two  jaguar,  apparently  at  the  very 
water’s  edge  where  a light  covering  bush  only  half 


THE  RARE  SIGHT  OF  A HUNTER’S  LIFE  255 


concealed  them.  With  no  commotion  at  all  I in- 
stantly backed  water,  a signal  Ignacio  well  under- 
stood, and  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  write  it  we  were 
under  the  protecting  bank.  Then  to  Ignacio’s  instant 
animation  I whispered  “ tigre.” 

Standing  in  the  bow,  with  ready  rifle,  and  a leg 
on  either  side  the  cross  seat  to  steady  me,  I bade  him 
advance  with  utmost  quiet,  keeping  close  to  the  bank 
so  as  to  round  the  point  slowly.  Approaching  noise- 
lessly we  came  just  at  the  turn,  where  peering  cau- 
tiously through  the  brush  screen  with  breath  all  but 
suspended  in  my  hushed  eagerness,  I saw  in  very  life 
two  jaguar,  one  for  the  entire  length  of  its  body,  the 
other  to  just  back  of  the  shoulders.  They  appeared 
to  be  engaged  in  post-prandial  ablutions,  alternately 
tonguing  their  paws  and  washing  their  noses  for  all 
the  world  like  the  giant  cats  they  really  are.  The 
animal  in  full  view  was  the  male  and  larger,  and  oc- 
casionally he  would  turn  his  head  towards  the  female 
at  his  side  as  if  caressing  her  shoulder  or  neck,  though 
from  my  position  I could  only  see  his  head  moving 
in  rhythmic  motion — and  my  imagination  supplied 
the  reason.  There  was  no  play  between  them  so  far 
as  I could  see,  but  they  were  obviously  on  most 
friendly  terms,  surveying  one  another  with  the  quiet- 
eyed content  of  intimate  and  agreeable  relationship. 
They  licked  and  stretched  in  peace  and  silence,  a com- 
munion, as  it  were,  of  stomachs  well  filled  but  re- 
cently, very  likely  at  no  great  distance  from  where 
they  lay,  for  your  true  jaguar  is  a water  lover  and 
ranges  near  by  a stream  when  he  can.  I was  so  in- 
terested watching  them  I quite  forgot  for  the  moment 
the  business  of  trophy  getting,  and  even  recollecting 


256 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


continued  to  feast  upon  the  domestic  scene  so  rare  a 
sight  in  a hunter’s  lifetime.  I cannot  say  how  many 
minutes  I had  stood  gazing  at  them — when  the  fe- 
male quietly  and  for  no  reason  I could  discover  with- 
drew into  the  enveloping  jungle,  while  the  male 
showed  signs  of  following.  But  on  that  instant  I 
ceased  to  be  the  fascinated  student  and  became  in- 
stead the  zealous  hunter  of  wild  life. 

Holding  as  steady  as  I could  on  a platform  not  en- 
tirely at  rest,  I fired  into  the  chest  of  the  male  just  as 
he  was  rising.  A sullen  growl,  a crash  of  brush,  and 
silence  and  emptiness  where  a second  before  had 
been  jaguar,  was  the  result  of  my  shot.  Paddling 
quickly  round  the  bend  I was  prepared  to  find  blood 
in  plenty  to  witness  my  score,  for  the  distance  was 
little  over  seventy-five  feet,  and  picking  up  the  spoor 
easily  I followed  at  good  pace  though  with  utmost  cau- 
tion, for  the  brush  was  thickish  and  well  calculated 
to  conceal  an  awaiting  and  maddened  beast.  For 
half  a mile  I stalked  warily  through  the  jungle  before 
emerging  upon  the  llanos  edge,  along  which  ran  the 
trail  of  blood.  It  seemed  remarkable  the  beast  could 
lose  so  much  and  keep  travelling,  and  I was  expect- 
ing to  come  upon  his  dead  body  at  any  moment,  when 
directly  from  my  left  front  came  the  crooning,  snarl- 
ing you  may  have  heard  the  house  cat  make  on  a 
much  smaller  scale  when  the  dog  has  come  near  her 
as  she  chewed  on  a mouthful  of  mouse. 

Swinging  sharply,  with  gun  at  shoulder,  I dis- 
covered the  male  crouched  not  over  thirty  feet  away, 
grimacing  at  me  hideously  and  growling  ominously, 
the  female,  a bit  back  on  the  near  side,  also  crouched 
and  making  faces,  though  I do  not  recall  hearing  her 


A BAG  OF  TWO  JAGUAR 


257 


voice.  She  seemed  indeed  to  be  taking  the  situation 
so  easily  I was  encouraged  to  attempt  a little  ma- 
noeuvring in  order  to  get  a clearer  shot  at  her  mate, 
but  on  my  sidling  to  the  right,  he  sprang  at  me, 
landing  short,  and  before  he  could  gather  himself 
for  another  attempt,  I put  a ball  in  his  head.  With 
the  fall  of  her  companion,  the  female  recoiled  to  one 
side,  and  was  making  off  when  I stopped  her  with 
a raking  shot  through  the  hindquarters  which  brought 
her  down  tearing  and  raging.  Dragging  her  hind 
legs  and  snarling  furiously,  she  continued  coming 
until  I closed  her  struggle  with  a second  bullet.  The 
male  was  of  good  size,  with  pelt  in  excellent  condi- 
tion, measuring  about  seven  feet  from  the  tip  of  its 
nose  to  the  end  of  its  tail;  the  female  was  a foot  and  a 
half  smaller. 

If  Ignacio  had  principles  against  working  on  land, 
he  certainly  set  them  aside  while  in  my  employ,  for 
a more  willing  or  helpful  man  Friday  I never  had. 
He  had  followed  me  ashore,  which  I considered 
plucky  of  him,  as  he  had  no  weapon  but  his  machete, 
and  now  indulged  in  fervid  admiration  of  the  rapid 
work  of  the  rifle.  Having  removed  the  pelts  and 
instructed  him  to  return  to  the  canoe  with  them  and 
await  me,  I went  on  a bit  to  see  if  perchance  the 
great,  white  stork  had  outlasted  the  bombardment. 
But  though  I found  a small  lagoon  and  other  likely 
territory,  no  sight  of  the  jabiru  rewarded  me,  though 
there  were  many  of  the  birds  now  become  familiar 
figures  as  we  approached  the  Apure — spoonbills,  ibis, 
small  herons,  egrets. 

Drawing  close  to  the  canoe  I explored  the  cano  in 


258 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


a last  vain  hojie  that  perhaps  on  the  other  clearer 
side  the  jabiru  might  be  found  in  its  peaceful  pose. 
But  no  more  uncommon  sight  repaid  my  toilsome 
threading  of  the  jungle  along  the  water’s  edge  than 
an  iguana,  the  big  tropical  lizard  whose  tail  is  a native 
relish  in  South  America,  Siam,  Malaya.  The  biggest 
I ever  saw  was  in  South  America  on  one  of  the  Apure 
tributaries.  It  had  jumped  to  the  ground  from  the 
low  limb  of  a tree  which  my  men  had  surrounded,  and 
thence  into  the  water,  leaving  a two-foot  tail  behind 
— a yarn  you  will  probably  consider  as  entitling  me 
to  membership  in  the  nature  faking  class,  but  which 
only  gives  what  actually  happened,  none  the  less,  be- 
fore my  eyes,  precisely  as  I recount  it.  It  is  an  un- 
lovely looking  creature  with  a head  similar  in  outline 
to  that  of  the  horned  toad  common  in  southwest 
United  States,  and  a spinal  column  which  rears  on 
high  in  the  middle  where  the  dorsal  vertebrse  appear 
to  have  broken  forth  in  an  abnormal,  not  to  say  riot- 
ous growth.  On  a small  scale  it  resembles  the  extinct 
Stegosaurus,  so  if  you  wish  a vague  idea  of  what  the 
iguana  looks  like,  visit  the  Museum  of  Natural  His- 
tory in  New  York  and  view  the  reproduction  of  its 
prehistoric  prototype. 

Reaching  the  canoe,  I found  Ignacio  had  been 
doing  some  successful  hunting  on  his  own  account. 
He  had  cut  down  with  his  machete  a brownish  snake 
about  five  feet  long,  which  he  said  was  the  “ macau- 
rel  ” or  “ macaure  ” that  lives  in  trees  and  is  “ malo  ” 
(bad).  It  had  the  poisonous  type  head,  and  most 
likely  was  one  of  the  deadly  lance-heads;  but  I saw 
no  other.  Indeed,  snakes  were  the  wild  life  of  which 


A THIEF  IN  THE  NIGHT 


259 


I saw  the  least,  though  they  fairly  squirm  on  every 
page  of  most  accounts  of  South  American  travel. 
Not  that  snakes  are  lacking,  but  they  get  out  of  your 
way;  you  may  hear  them  often,  particularly  in  the 
dry  season,  but  to  see  one  is  unusual — at  least,  such 
was  the  experience  of  my  five  trips  into  the  wilderness 
of  the  great  continent  which  we  know  so  slightly  and 
continue  to  overlook  so  persistently. 

As  if  to  amend  her  previous  disregard  of  my  im- 
portunities, the  elusive  Dame  who  rules  our  des- 
tinies, whether  we  be  in  town  or  jungle,  now  pro- 
ceeded to  embarrass  me  with  gifts.  The  very  next 
day  we  arrived  at  a rancho  a short  distance  back  from 
the  river  where  the  family  loudly  bemoaned  the  loss 
of  a favourite  dog  carried  off  by  the  jaguar,  so  they 
said,  and,  told  by  Ignacio  of  our  exploit  of  the  pre- 
vious day,  besought  me  to  find  and  shoot  the  thief. 
I was  not  averse,  of  course,  to  comply,  but  as  it 
was  now  mid-afternoon,  and  the  dog  had  been  seized 
before  daylight,  I thought  the  chance  slim  of  catch- 
ing up  with  the  jaguar,  which  would  probably  make 
a single  meal  of  so  small  a quarry  and  therefore  not 
return  for  further  feasting  thus  to  provide  us  with 
opportunity  for  seeing,  if  not  killing.  However,  I 
signified  my  willingness  to  make  the  try. 

Followed  by  Ignacio,  and  each  of  them  carrying  a 
spear,  the  man  of  the  rancho  led  the  way  inland  across 
the  open  llanos  to  a grove  whence  he  claimed  to  have 
heard  the  yelps  of  his  dog,  and  we  had  not  searched 
over  half  an  hour  before  we  found  its  mutilated  re- 
mains. I was  now  convinced  that  the  marauder  was  a 
smaller  beast  than  jaguar,  and  would  return  to  finish 


260 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


its  repast  as  night  drew  on;  so  at  my  suggestion  we 
each  went  up  a tree  overlooking  the  kill.  No  birds 
came  here  at  sundown  as  at  the  water-holes  over 
Maracaibo  way,  but  of  furtive,  small  animal  life 
there  was  much  and  varied;  the  jungle  seeming  to  be 
literally  alive  with  small  rodents.  How  one  can  walk 
amid  these  hordes  without  seeing  a head!  It  is  to 
marvel!  A nearby  howling  monkey  disturbed  the 
peace,  subsiding  in  a long,  dismal  wail  as  the  dusk 
thickened.  Suddenly,  as  if  out  of  the  earth,  appeared 
a large  cat.  After  a quick  survey,  it  fell  upon  the 
carcass,  and  at  once  I shot,  tumbling  the  creature 
over  with  the  first  cartridge.  Scrambling  out  of  the 
trees  we  found  what  Ignacio  called  a “ tegrillo  ” 
(little  tigre),  though  it  had  none  of  the  jaguar  mark- 
ings. On  the  contrary,  it  was  grayish  with  black 
markings,  about  the  size  of  a big  lynx;  in  fact,  except 
for  its  long  tail,  it  might  have  been  a monster  bob-cat. 

There  was  rejoicing  at  the  rancho  when  we  re- 
turned, and  a sancocho  prepared  to  celebrate  the 
death  of  the  robber  and  do  honour  to  the  guest,  as  they 
insisted  on  making  me.  The  poverty  of  the  house- 
hold, with  father,  mother,  four  children  and  the  wife’s 
sister  in  the  one  room  with  shed  annex,  was  unmis- 
takable, but  it  seemed  to  have  no  dampening  influence 
upon  the  spirits  or  the  bounty  of  the  family;  the 
children  raced  and  tumbled  while  the  elders  ate  and 
talked  and  laughed  with  never  a sigh  or  a sign  of 
care.  There  was  no  hard-luck  story  in  that  house. 
Yet  the  roof  leaked,  a raw,  chill  wind  sifted  through 
the  flimsy,  palm-leaf  sides,  and  so  far  as  I could  see, 
except  for  coffee  and  a large  thin  slab  of  came  seca. 


Pliotoby  r..  I.,  M.  lirown  SAN  FERNANDO  UE  APURE  IN  THE  RAINY  SEASON 


THE  SLAUGHTER  OF  EGRETS 


261 


our  sancocho  emptied  the  larder.  Truly,  happiness 
is  comparative! 

The  father,  in  the  summer  season,  was  a plume 
hunter,  he  told  me,  devoting  his  efforts  almost  en- 
tirely to  the  egrets,  whose  feathers  he  took  to  San 
Fernando  de  Apure  to  a milliner’s  agent,  who  as- 
sorted and  forwarded  them  to  New  York.  The 
last  year  had  been  a poor  one  for  him;  indeed,  for 
several  seasons  the  general  annual  plume  harvest 
had  fallen  far  below  the  standard,  because  of  the  great 
and  repeated  yearly  slaughter.  He  referred  enthu- 
siastically to  the  profits  of  the  business,  declaring  he 
had  in  a few  weeks’  hunting  made  enough  to  keep  him 
a year,  and  one  hundred  birds  in  a single  visit  to  a 
colony  rookery  not  unusual. 

Killing  an  egret  is  as  easy  as  killing  chickens  in  the 
yard,  he  explained,  because  the  birds  return  year  after 
year  to  the  same  places  to  make  their  rookeries,  which 
are  closely  occupied  in  great  numbers,  and  because 
they  are  easy  of  approach  during  their  breeding  pe- 
riod— the  only  time  they  wear  the  white  nuptial 
plume  (worn  by  both  sexes  between  the  shoulders), 
known  to  the  millinery  world  as  aigrette.  For- 
merly, when  the  birds  were  so  plentiful  as  to  yield  a 
quick  and  bountiful  harvest,  only  the  nuptial  plume 
was  carried  away,  but  now  some  of  the  finer  of  the 
egret’s  other  feathers  are  taken  in  small  quantities. 
In  reply  to  my  particular  query  if  moulted  feathers 
are  gathered,  he  answered  that  some  such  are  used 
by  the  Indians  for  decorative  purposes,  but  none  of 
commercial  value  are  ever  found  on  the  ground,  the 
season  of  slaughter  being  while  the  birds  are  nesting, 
when  the  plumes  are  in  full  lustre  and  life.  With  the 


S62 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


decrease  of  the  egret,*  or  little  white  heron,  native 
gunners  from  San  Fernando  and  Bolivar  in  the  em- 
ploy of  the  millinery  interests  are  beginning  to  kill 
other  birds  of  attractive  plumage,  which  previously 
have  been  unmolested — several  of  the  larger  herons, 
the  cranes,  spoonbills,  ibises,  being  thus  preyed  upon. 
In  short,  he  added  that  the  entire  bird  colony  is  be- 
coming perceptibly  reduced  in  numbers. 

All  kinds  of  bird  and  reptile  life  increased  as  we 
reached  the  Apure  River,  and  by  the  time  we  had 
arrived  at  San  Fernando,  every  lagoon  we  saw 
swarmed  with  the  heron-crane-ibis-wader  type,  and 
every  waterway  with  crocodiles. 

As  the  back  door,  so  to  say,  of  Venezuela,  and  a 
town  doing  considerable  business,  I had  pictured  San 
Fernando  as  something  better  than  nondescript. 
Centred  about  the  port  are  buildings  somewhat  in 
accord  with  its  commercial  importance,  but  back  of 
these  it  becomes  for  the  greater  part  a straggling, 
uncared-for  adobe  village.  Maybe  the  fickleness  of 
the  river  is  a contributing  cause  to  the  town’s  unim- 
posing appearance.  By  turns  it  is  left  high  and  dry 
beyond  the  reach  of  its  regular  steamers,  or  so  inun- 
dated the  flooded  streets  are  navigated  only  by  means 
of  boats.  In  midsummer  I have  seen  the  river  but 
a shrunken  image  of  the  one  thousand  foot  tide  I 
found  the  last  of  April,  with  heavy  rains  to  come. 


* There  are  two,  both  pure  white — the  smaller  and  more 
exquisitely  plumed  snowy  or  little  heron  {Egretta  candid- 
issima)  and  the  twice  as  large  American  or  white  egret 
(Herodias  egretta),  whose  plumes  are  straight  and  not  re- 
curved at  tip  as  on  the  little  heron. 


A FISH  TERROR  OF  THE  WATERS  263 


Having  replenished  the  supplies  exhausted  by 
our  loitering  along  the  Portuguesa,  and  exchanged 
our  low  dugout  for  a higher-sided  canoe  more  suited 
to  the  rougher  water  we  should  soon  meet,  we  took 
up  our  way  again  through  a veritable  fairyland  of 
bird  life.  Shortly,  the  Apure  divides  itself  into  two 
main  streams,  and  in  high  water  offers  a maze  of 
channels  and  canos  to  the  bewilderment  of  the  trav- 
eller. All  that  country  to  the  west,  lying  between 
the  Apme  and  the  Arauca  rivers,  is  floodland.  In- 
deed, the  lower  section  might,  with  good  reason,  be 
called  the  Apure  delta,  for  here  the  two  rivers  join 
by  a branch  which  the  Apure  sends  south,  thus  mak- 
ing an  island  of  a part  of  the  west  Orinoco  bank. 
From  the  Arauca  south  to  the  Meta  is  about  a seven 
or  eight-day  ride  across  savannahs  or  llanos  which 
are  passable  most  of  the  year,  though  it  is  not  until 
beyond  the  Meta  that  the  country  really  rises  above 
floodland.  Riding  in  the  Apure-Arauca  delta,  if  I 
may  so  call  it,  is  out  of  the  question,  except  by  boat 
during  the  wet  season.  Here  and  along  the  southern 
reaches  of  the  Apure  itself  are  the  egi’et  shambles. 

Although  this  section  is  monotonous  and  unin- 
teresting as  to  scenery,  it  offers  a fascinating  jour- 
ney in  the  early  wet  season  to  one  sufficiently  devoted 
to  the  study  of  wild  life  to  be  above  the  torture 
of  insects  and  the  discomfort  of  constant  rain.  At 
least,  so  I found  it,  extending  my  ten  days  from  San 
Fernando  into  another  nine  while  we  explored  the 
Apure  mouth  and  the  streams  coming  into  it.  Here 
I made  acquaintance  with  that  fish  terror  which  is 
common  to  the  lower  waters  of  the  Apure,  especially 
in  the  Orinoco  at  the  big  bend,  and  called  “ el  caribe  ” 


264 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


by  the  natives  and  Serrasalmo  kumeralis  by  the 
scientists.  It  is  more  dreaded  than  the  crocodile;  al- 
though less  than  a foot  in  length,  man  and  beast  alike 
shun  whatever  water  it  frequents,  for  it  travels  in 
schools  and  attacks  with  such  ferocity  that  both  have 
died  from  being  bitten.  It  has  a grayish  back,  an 
orange  belly,  a mouth  full  of  canine  teeth  and  if  its 
upper  jaws  were  a little  longer,  its  profile  would  quite 
resemble  that  of  a small  pike.  Blood,  not  flesh,  is 
what  the  fish  craves,  and  you  have  only  to  squeeze 
blood  upon  the  surface  of  the  water  to  see  it  rise  snap- 
ping, a method  by  which  it  may  be  caught,  for  the 
caribe  is  excellent  eating,  as  I can  attest. 

Both  heat  and  rain  increased  as  we  pursued  our 
river  journey;  the  mercury  going  up  from  an  average 
of  90°  to  93°-94°,  while  at  night  it  clung  to 
80°.  One  day,  a terrific  thunder  and  lightning  storm 
caused  Ignacio  to  grovel  terror-stricken  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  canoe,  to  my  amazement,  for  although  I 
found  that  everywhere  in  wilderness  South  America 
my  Indians  feared  thunder  and  lightning  as  manifes- 
tations of  the  dreaded  evil  spirits,  yet  none  had  been 
so  affected  as  this  fellow.  One  would  think  these 
people  accustomed  to  the  tropical  storms  which  rage 
with  such  violence. 

In  these  last  days  of  paddling  over  the  lower 
Apure  country  I had  a good  view  of  many  kinds  of 
birds,  but  never  succeeded  in  getting  close  to  the 
jabiru  stork,*  which  I craved  more  than  a jaguar,  and 


* Professor  Bingham  got  one  on  his  trip  to  Bogota  hav- 
ing a wing  spread  of  7 feet  10  inches  and  a beak  one  foot 
long. 


THE  CONTENT  OF  FEW  DESIRES 


265 


for  which  I had  extended  my  wanderings  over  this 
lower  Apure  country  to  the  very  limit  of  my  time.  It 
is  not  always  possible,  however,  to  secure  the  trophy 
you  want  even  in  South  America,  and  I w’^as  forced  to 
leave  with  this  desire  unrealized.  JMore  fortunate  was 
Ignacio,  who  appeared  to  have  no  ambition  unfilled, 
when,  before  boarding  the  little  Apure  steamer  for 
Ciudad  Bolivar,  I left  with  him  my  canoe  and  pres- 
ents in  both  hands. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
TRAILING  AFTER  JAGUAR 


Chancing  upon  Pedro  for  my  first  jaguar  hunt 
in  South  America  is  the  story  of  how  an  indulgent 
Providence  came  to  the  rescue  of  a wandering  hunter 
who  had  little  time  and  less  money. 

Unable  to  secure  any  dependable  information  of 
the  game  even  at  Sante  Fe  near  the  mouth  of  the  Rio 
Salado,  I went  up  the  Parana  River  prospecting  for 
a district  and  a guide  likely  to  give  most  results  in 
the  time  at  my  disposal.  The  territory  of  Corrientes 
was  my  objective,  particularly  that  western  part 
which  borders  the  vast  pampas  and  forest  wilderness 
of  the  Gran  Chaco  across  the  river. 

Just  above  the  capital  town,  the  Parana  bends 
abruptly  to  the  east  and  then  north,  making  the  south- 
erly and  westerly  boundaries  of  Paraguay,  before 
extending  far  into  southwestern  Brazil  to  thus  form 
the  great  southern  division  of  the  Flowing  Road  and 
run  a course  second  only  to  that  of  the  Amazon. 
South  of  the  east-flowing  Parana  a notorious  lagoon 
is  reported  to  be  the  resort  of  beasts  and  many  kinds 
of  crawling  things,  and  almost  every  day  as  I as- 
cended the  river  its  reptilian  and  fever  horrors  were 
recounted  for  my  benefit.  If  you  turn  to  your  map 
of  the  Argentine  Republic,  you  will  get  a clearer 
idea  of  the  locality  of  this  ill-famed  haunt.  I will 
here,  however,  anticipate  my  story  and  so  dismiss  the 
subject,  by  saying  that  I was  never  able  to  induce 
a native  for  love  or  money  to  undertake  to  pilot  me 


266 


THE  ISLAND-FILLED  PARANA 


267 


thither,  though  I located  and  one  day  intend  to  pene- 
trate its  mysteries;  for  here  and  in  the  little  known 
Gran  Chaco  run  many  trails  of  the  jaguar. 

So  with  no  definite  disembarking  port  in  mind,  I 
sailed  up  river,  getting  all  the  data  I could  and  trust- 
ing entirely  to  my  wilderness  traveller  faculty  of  mak- 
ing the  most  of  whatever  finally  offered. 

It  is  a prolific  waterway,  this  mud-colored  Parana, 
with  broad,  changeful  body,  dividing  over  and  over 
into  parallel  rivers  sometimes  as  much  as  a mile  in 
width,  anon  to  gather  again  to  the  one  common 
mother  stream.  Where  the  Paraguay  coming  from 
many  miles  north  in  Brazil  joins  the  Parana  near 
Corrientes  the  banks  for  a space  are  two  and  three 
miles  apart,  and  when  the  Uruguay  adds  also  its 
volume  the  three  become  the  Rio  de  la  Plata,  a veri- 
table inland  sea  with  shores  so  widely  separated  you 
can  not  see  either  from  midstream. 

Always  one  is  coming  upon  islands,  sometimes 
submerged  almost  to  the  top  of  their  small  tree 
growth,  again  showing  high  against  the  lower  bank 
of  one  side — for  one  bank  of  the  river  is  invariably 
low;  and  most  of  the  time  it  is  the  west  one.  A 
monotonous  panorama  indeed.  Boundless  pampas 
stretch  away  on  the  west  to  the  foot  of  the  Andes  with 
here  and  there  a group  of  trees  to  show  where  some 
ranchman  has  his  house.  Now  and  then  a pole  re- 
places the  trees,  floating  a small  white  flag  from  its 
top  as  a sign  of  “ almacen  ” (store)  ; but  with  the 
Gran  Chaco  begins  tropical  forest. 

A rough-travelling,  fickle  river  it  is  and  a pilot 
must  know  his  business  to  pass  safely  through  its 
shifting  shoals;  ever  altering  the  boat’s  direction 


268 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


to  conform  to  the  tortuous  channel,  steaming  ahead 
by  day  and  night,  stopped  only  by  fog,  which  is  often 
heavy.  Few  pilots  have  I ever  encountered,  indeed, 
that  know  their  business  better  than  these  on  the 
Parana,  always  on  watch,  as  they  need  be,  and  de- 
pending upon  keenness  of  vision  to  read  aright  the 
signs  of  the  courses  which  vary  so  constantly. 

It  was  with  a pilot  of  this  class  that  I made 
friends.  Standing  on  the  top  deck  photographing 
a passing  craft,  the  strong  wind  had  snatched  me 
bareheaded  in  the  noon-day  sun,  sweeping  my  hat 
down  the  deck  and  over  the  stern  rail  into  the  water ; 
and,  by  way  of  illustrating  native  apathy,  no  one  of 
all  the  other  many  passengers  on  deck  made  an  efF ort 
to  stay  the  runaway  headgear.  My  own  indiffer- 
ence to  the  loss  seemed  to  arouse  interest  in  Lucas — 
for  as  I turned  from  taking  the  snapshot  and  wound 
in  another  film,  I caught  his  black  eyes  eloquent 
with  speech,  though  the  tongue  uttered  only  “ se  va  ” 
— it  has  gone.  The  humour  of  the  situation  appealed 
to  both  of  us  and  we  were  at  once  on  easy  terms. 

He  was  a pilot,  he  told  me,  on  the  steamers  which 
run  from  Buenos  Aires,  in  Argentine,  to  Asuncion, 
in  Paraguay,  but  had  been  laid  off  a week  or  so  by 
the  “ chuchu  ” (fever),  and  was  now  going  over  to 
Parana  to  rejoin  his  boat.  He  was  about  thirty, 
with  hair  hanging  below  his  ears,  a small  black  mus- 
tache, and  a large,  square-crowned,  black  sombrero, 
securely  fastened  to  his  head  by  a string  under  the 
chin  that  tied  in  a bow-knot  below  his  left  ear.  His 
trousers,  though  not  so  full  in  the  leg,  were  fastened 
at  the  ankles  Zouave  fashion.  He  wore  an  ordinary 
European  sack  coat,  a waist  sash  of  the  worsted  fre- 


THE  OVERDRAWN  GAUCHO 


269 


quently  seen  on  up-country  natives,  a collarless  shirt, 
and  a very  much  soiled  white  handkerchief  around 
his  neck.  On  his  feet  were  a kind  of  heel-less  leather 
slippers,  unadorned.  His  father  was  Italian  and  his 
mother  a native,  he  said;  a parentage  quite  usual  to 
not  only  a majority  of  pilots,  but  also  to  great  num- 
bers of  Argentine’s  ’longshoremen.  Truth  to  tell,  the 
Italian  is  becoming  to  South  America,  and  particu- 
larly to  Argentine,  what  the  Chinaman  is  to  Malaya 
and  Siam,  viz.,  the  industrial  backbone;  for  the  na- 
tive here  as  in  parts  of  the  Far  East  is  not  a depend- 
able labourer. 

There  is  not  much  colour  in  the  costume  of  the  na- 
tive Argentine,  but  Lucas  made  the  most  of  it,  though 
in  all  his  regalia  he  showed  not  nearly  the  picturesque- 
ness of  the  rivermen  of  Eastern  Canada  or  of  our 
own  extreme  northwest.  Absence  of  colour,  both  in 
costume  and  habitation,  indeed,  is  the  chief  disillusion- 
ment of  the  traveller  in  South  America;  and  not  the 
least  factor  in  shattering  the  spell  is  the  “ gaucho,” 
as  the  Argentine  cattle  tender  is  called.  According 
to  the  tourist  trumpeter,  the  gaucho  is  a pictu- 
resquely clad  cowboy  of  transcendent  horsemanship. 
Actually,  he  is  rather  commonplace  in  appearance  and 
not  in  the  same  riding  class  with  the  keen-eyed  type 
of  our  Western  cowboy.  In  the  “ gato,”  a kind  of 
walk-round  dance  to  guitar  accompaniment,  with 
“ facon  ” (knife)  stuck  in  his  wide  belt,  the  gaucho 
may  swagger  to  the  deception  of  tenderfeet,  but  afield, 
in  the  saddle,  he  is,  to  trained  eyes,  the  most  over- 
drawn character  in  South  America — and  dirty. 

Alongside  of  the  American  red  man,  or  the  na- 
tive of  the  mysterious  Far  East,  but  little  of  human 


270 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


interest  worth  noting  may  be  found  among  the 
dwellers  in  South  America  outside  of  interior  Brazil. 
In  fact,  Paris  excepted,  the  cities  of  Italy  or  Spain 
or  France  show  more  colour  than  the  towns  of  South 
America;  while  of  home  manufactured  articles  there 
are  practically  none,  except  the  “ poncho  ” (a  blan- 
ket with  a head  hole,  worn  over  the  shoulders) , a few 
crude  household  utensils,  wool  rugs,  and  the  “ Pana- 
ma ” and  other  palm  straw  hats. 

If  it  lacked  “ colour,”  at  least  the  human  freight  of 
the  river  boat  was  varied.  The  first-class  filled  the 
cabins  amid  a jumble  of  tin  trunks,  bundles  and  bird 
cages — half  of  them  it  seemed  carried  a bird  cage — 
while  the  third-class  shared  the  stern  deck  with  great 
piles  of  fruit  and  vegetables,  and  the  chickens,  ducks 
and  sheep.  Like  all  Latin-Americans,  though 
abashed  before  strangers,  they  were  instinct  with  life 
and  gaiety  among  themselves,  the  solemn  little  chil- 
dren with  their  splendid,  wondering  eyes  becoming 
radiant  imps  under  the  influence  of  parental  romping. 
Unvarying  politeness  and  universal  love  for  children 
are  the  traits  which  warm  my  heart  to  these  people. 
I never  tire  watching  a native  woman  at  play  with 
her  babe;  such  a flow  of  tender  diminutives  and  rap- 
turous vivacity!  there  is  no  sight  more  pleasing  in  all 
of  South  America. 

When  the  boat  stopped  to  discharge  passengers 
the  men  sauntered  forward,  with  poncho  thrown  bull- 
fighter fashion  over  one  shoulder,  leading  the  elder 
children.  The  women  carried  a majority  of  the  bun- 
dles and  showed  a tendency  to  violent  dress  effects — 
a yellow  waist  being  as  likely  worn  with  a purple 
as  with  a black  or  brown  skirt.  Harmony  is  not  a 


THE  DISFIGURING  FOREIGN  HAT 


271 


preeminent  feature  of  the  modernized  costume  of 
the  South  American  woman  of  the  people;  but  its 
most  discordant  note  is  the  hat.  It  is  remarkable 
what  a transformation  ensues  when  the  average 
Spanish- American  woman  replaces  her  mantua  with 
a European  hat.  It  is  like  putting  a bonnet  on 
Aphrodite;  not  that  these  women  of  the  South  are 
so  perfect — but  the  hat  appears  to  destroy  the  grace 
and  dignity  of  a naturally  graceful  and  attractive 
figure.  It  is  nearly  as  dreadful  a presentment  as  the 
Japanese  woman  in  European  clothes.  From  Brazil 
down  the  coast  and  across  the  Andes,  through  Chile 
and  into  Peru,  the  better  class  of  women  have  dis- 
carded the  mantua,  although,  in  Peru,  they  wear  the 
mantilla,  while  the  lower  class  retain  the  mantua  for 
church  attendance.* 

Frankly,  I preferred  the  deck  passengers  to  those 
occupying  cabins,  for  whereas  the  one  fitted  to  their 
environment,  the  other  lacked  the  behaviour  and 
habits  which  belong  to  purchasers  of  first-class  quar- 
ters. And  that  leads  to  another  of  the  impressions 
made  upon  the  traveller  into  South  America,  particu- 
larly into  Brazil.  There  is  wide  pretence  to  culture, 
but  outside  a select  and  delightful  few,  in  truth  very 
slight  familiarity  with  the  canons  of  refined  people. 
It  is  as  though  a simple-minded,  simple-living  pas- 
toral people  had  recently  attained  to  wealth  and  set 
up  town  houses.  But  the  European  stock,  originally 

* A solid-colour  shawl,  almost  invariably  black,  some- 
times blue  for  gala  occasions,  which  is  worn  over  the  head 
and  shoulders.  The  mantilla  is  of  lace,  and  covers  only  the 
head  and  the  neck ; for  church  and  street  wear  it  is  black ; 
as  an  evening  wrap  it  is  white. 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


m 

low,  for  the  most  part,  is  gradually  clarifying,  es- 
pecially in  the  Argentine,  and  strengthening  in  the 
developing  country  of  its  adoption.  Meanwhile,  there 
is  not  the  vulgar  display  or  the  boorish  manners  or 
blatant  voice  of  the  corresponding  class  which  pre- 
dominates in  the  high-price  New  York  restaurant. 

Lucas  was  very  eager  to  learn  something  of  me, 
whence  I came,  and  what  had  brought  me  into  his 
country;  and  when  I told  him  I wanted  to  make 
my  way  north  into  Corrientes  to  a famous  lagoon 
where  were  jaguar,  he  grew  much  concerned.  He 
had  heard  of  the  lagoon,  and  held  it  in  horror;  but 
he  said  he  had  a riverman  friend  living  not  many 
miles  above  Parana  who  had  not  only  seen  the  lagoon, 
but  had  killed  tigre  in  the  Gran  Chaco. 

Here  at  last  was  the  very  man  I sought.  Did 
Lucas  think  his  friend  Pedro  could  be  persuaded 
to  go  with  me?  “ Oh,  si,  si  ” (yes,  yes) ; Lucas  was 
sure  of  it,  and  promised  to  bring  Pedro  to  me  at  once 
on  our  landing. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  all  this  information  came 
to  me  so  easily  or  so  quickly  as  I am  here  writing 
it.  My  Spanish  was  none  too  fluent  and  the  three 
hours  from  Santa  Fe  to  Parana  none  too  long  for 
the  task.  But  even  had  it  been  unnecessary  to  labor- 
iously repeat  each  simple  sentence,  I should  in  some 
way  have  prolonged  the  confab  with  Lucas,  for  his 
happy  laugh  and  child-like  interest  in  my  plans  were 
very  agreeable.  To  arouse  in  another  such  unselfish 
interest  in  one’s  own  schemes  is  a novel  experience  to 
the  New  Yorker.  Had  Lucas  not  been  obliged  to 
join  his  boat,  he  would  have  gone  with  me  himself : he 
said  so — and  I believe  he  meant  it. 


THE  GAL’CHO  IN  THE  FIELD,  ALSO  SHOWING  THE  WOODLAND  OCCASIONALLY  SEEN  ON  THE  PAMPAS 


A COUSIN  TO  THE  APACHE 


273 


I was  elated  with  the  thought  of  securing  a guide 
who  had  been  into  the  Gran  Chaco,  for  this  great 
wilderness  is  known  to  but  few  men  and  has  few 
roads  save  the  waterways  which  cut  it  through  from 
northwest  to  southeast.  Although  of  the  Argentine 
Republic,  it  is  occupied  almost  solely  by  Indians  of 
a common  source  but  maintaining  several  tribal  dis- 
tinctions and  dialects.  Of  smallish  stature  they  are 
also  of  rather  a low  intellectual  order ; those  I saw  of 
the  Mocovito  tribe,  that  find  their  homes  along  the 
jungles  on  the  Rio  Salado,  resembled  the  nomads 
who  trail  over  northwestern  Mexico,  particularly 
where  it  touches  the  California  Gulf.  The  Gran 
Chaco  people  are  neither  imaginative  nor  creative. 
They  have  no  arts  other  than  the  manufacture  of 
crude  earthen  pots,  and  of  bows,  arrows  and  lances, 
which  they  make  of  hard  wood ; their  arrows,  I must 
add,  are  very  skilfully  turned,  and  fitted  with  a shaft 
of  willow,  a head  of  hard  wood  and  sometimes  of 
notched  bone. 

Their  house  or  “ toldo  ” is  roundish  and  squat, 
varying  in  size  according  to  the  extent  of  the  family, 
though  in  general  having  a diameter  of  six  to  seven 
feet.  It  is  built  of  willows  stuck  in  the  ground,  drawn 
together  at  the  top  and  covered  with  straw  or  vine  or 
leaves  to  such  a depth  that  the  roof  is  made  water- 
proof, as  it  must  needs  be  in  their  rainy  country. 
They  are  not  unlike  a type  of  summer-house  made 
by  the  American  Apache. 

As  is  customary  with  wilderness  people,  all  the 
work  is  done  by  the  women,  from  the  making  of  the 
earthen  cooking  utensils,  the  gathering  of  the  wood 
and  the  building  of  the  toldos,  to  the  gathering  of 


274 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


roots  which  they  boil  and  eat.  Of  ornaments  they 
have  few,  sometimes  skins  and  sometimes  birds’ 
feathers,  but,  by  preference,  when  they  can  get  them 
by  trading,  the  plumes  of  the  rhea,  commonly  called 
“ ostrich,”  which  are  worn  on  the  forehead,  at  the 
waist,  ankles  and  wrist.  Slight  attention  is  given  to 
clothes ; once  they  made  a kind  of  loin  covering  from 
cocoanut  and  other  plant  fibre,  now  they  adopt  such 
rag-tag  and  bob-tail  garments  as  come  their  way,  and 
are  especially  fond  of  anything  red. 

There  are  places  in  the  Chaco  where  these  abo- 
rigines resent  the  intrusion  of  the  white  man;  have 
even  opposed  exploration  and  killed  the  adventurers, 
but  as  a people  they  are  a poor  lot,  cowardly  and 
scattering.  Yet,  it  is  well  to  be  armed  and  to  keep 
your  eyes  open,  if  you  journey  into  their  country, 
for  their  habit  is  to  ambush  the  march  or  sneak 
up  when  you  are  sleeping.  Several  explorers 
have  lost  their  lives  in  the  Gran  Chaco,  but  from  all 
I could  discover,  bad  management  was  quite  as  re- 
sponsible as  Indian  truculence.  The  Argentine  gov- 
ernment maintains  a post  at  the  frontier  and  the 
condition  seems  to  be  one  of  ever-recurring  reprisal 
on  the  part  of  both  soldiers  and  Indians.  The  In- 
dian policy  is  a mighty  poor  one — too  closely  pat- 
terned after  that  Spain  pursued  in  the  Philippines. 

Pedro  was  not  on  the  dock  when  we  arrived  at 
Parana,  and  Lucas,  even  more  concerned  than  I, 
sought  to  comfort  me  by  the  assurance  that  he  would 
certainly  find  him;  so  as  Lucas  set  forth  to  explore 
the  river  front,  I went  up  to  the  little  hotel  in  the 
town  atop  the  high  bank.  Although  not  interesting, 
as  indeed  few  towns  are  in  the  Argentine,  yet  Parana 


THE  PRIDE  OF  RACE 


275 


is  one  of  the  most  pleasingly  situated  in  the  Repub- 
lic. It  is  on  the  east  bank  of  the  Parana  River,  one 
hundred  and  twenty  feet  above  the  water,  about 
two  miles  back  from  the  landing,  and  with  its  twenty- 
five  thousand  inhabitants  is  the  chief  centre  of  a very 
rich  surrounding  country.  It  has  the  cobblestone 
streets  so  common  to  South  American  cities,  which 
loosen  the  teeth  of  the  unwary  stranger  on  his  first 
drive.  The  streets  must  be  paved,  otherwise  cart 
wheels  would  disappear  from  view  and  usefulness, 
but  why  they  are  so  partial  to  such  an  aggressive  pin- 
nacle of  stone  no  one  could  say.  To  me  Parana  is  a 
confused  recollection  of  imposing  cathedral,  ever- 
clanging  bells,  and  jarring  streets. 

It  was  not  quite  daylight  next  morning  when, 
with  his  friend  in  tow,  Lucas  joined  me.  Pedro 
was  absolutely  the  opposite  type  of  Lucas.  He  was 
a small,  dried-up  Spaniard,  simple  and  conventional 
in  dress.  He  wore  conventional  trousers,  a felt  hat, 
a pair  of  canvas  shoes,  and  a worn  skimp  white 
canvas  coat,  buttoned  up  the  front.  More  truth- 
fully, the  coat  had  been  white  at  one  period  in 
its  existence;  a period  that  had  passed  long  before 
my  introduction  to  him.  Nevertheless,  I could  see 
he  took  great  pride  in  this  garment  and  kept  it  al- 
ways closed  to  its  limit  of  button.  It  looked  as 
though  it  had  been  a soldier’s  jacket,  and  Pedro  fur- 
thered the  suggestion  by  strips  of  the  same  ma- 
terial sewTi  across  the  shoulder  like  the  straps  of  a 
commissioned  officer.  However  unprepossessing  his 
dress,  Pedro’s  face  was  attractive.  It  was  a wrin- 
kled, sallow  old  face,  but  the  wrinkles  around  the 
eyes  told  of  good  nature,  and  the  look  in  the  eye 


276 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


itself,  though  not  brilliant,  was  steady  and  inviting. 

While  we  had  the  invariable  colFee  and  ciga- 
rettes, Lucas  held  forth  long  and  earnestly  with 
Pedro,  and  though  he  talked  so  rapidly  I could  not 
follow,  yet  a word  here  and  there  told  me  he  was 
impressing  Pedro  with  the  need  of  doing  his  best 
for  me,  laying  special  emphasis  on  the  fact  that  I 
was  making  a journey  of  “ ten  thousand  miles  ” to  see 
this  little  bit  of  country.  To  all  of  which  Pedro 
nodded,  raising  his  hands  in  acquiescence  and  inter- 
jecting “ como  no  ” (why  not;  surely),  so  frequently 
as  to  appear  to  bear  the  full  burden  of  his  share  in 
the  conversation.  Then  we  all  got  into  a three-horse 
cart  and  drove  bumpingly  down  to  the  river,  where, 
to  my  genuine  regret,  Lucas  bade  me  good-bye. 

From  no  one  in  South  America  did  I take  leave 
more  reluctantly  than  from  this  same  pilot  who,  out 
of  pure,  genuine  desire  to  help  a stranger,  had  put 
me  on  my  way  and  revealed  the  heart  of  a gentle- 
man. I lost  his  address  in  subsequent  rains  and 
swamps.  Should  this  ever  fall  under  his  eye  I hope 
he  Avill  make  his  whereabouts  known  to  me. 

Pedro  was  not  very  talkative,  and  when  he  did 
interrupt  his  habitual  silence  I could  not  understand 
liim  so  readily  as  I had  Lucas,  for  half  the  blood  in 
Pedro’s  veins  came  from  a Chaco  mother,  and  their 
trick  of  talking  in  their  throats  adds  to  the  diffi- 
culties of  a foreigner’s  Spanish.  Therefore,  our  at- 
tempts at  conversation  were  few  and  widely  sepa- 
rated. Not  that  he  was  at  all  surly;  on  the  contrary, 
he  was  very  good-natured  and  willing,  and,  as  I 
found  before  I got  through  the  trip,  considerable  of 
a philosopher;  a quality  I strove  to  emulate,  for 


IN  THE  FACE  OF  A PAMPERO 


277 


there  was  need  of  it  in  the  almost  constant  down- 
pour of  rain  we  encountered  day  hy  day  on  our  little 
journey  after  jaguar. 

In  a dug-out  of  rather  well-turned  bow  and 
stern,  we  set  forth  on  our  way  up  the  Parana.  The 
river  was  stirring  with  the  beginning  of  a wind  storm, 
known  locally  as  a pampero,  and  what  with  the  waves 
and  the  strong  current  to  buck  against,  we  had  our 
work  cut  out  to  make  fair  headway,  hugging  the 
east  bank.  Often  we  eased  our  work  by  the  slower 
poling.  I had  no  clear  idea  of  preciselj’^  where  we 
were  going.  Lucas  had  given  me  some  vague  in- 
formation, probably  all  he  had,  and  in  a general  way 
I understood  Pedro’s  house,  quite  a little  distance 
up  the  river,  to  be  the  rendezvous  from  which  we 
were  to  make  up  the  Feliciano  River  toward  a sec- 
tion Pedro  “ knew  ” offered  a fair  prospect  of  jaguar. 
The  need  of  continuously  hard  blade  work  gave  lit- 
tle opportunity  to  observe  the  scenery  as  we  went 
along;  and  in  truth  there  was  not  much  to  look  at, 
nor  could  we  have  seen  it  very  clearly  even  had  there 
been,  for  the  wind-blown  spray  from  the  tops  of  the 
choppy  waves,  and  the  rain  driving  all  around  the 
compass,  left  our  eyes  swimming.  From  my  post  in 
the  bow  with  head  bent  to  the  storm  I saw  nothing 
beyond  the  reach  of  my  paddle.  And  whether  we 
were  on  the  main  stream  or  a branch  of  it  I cannot 
say,  for  none  but  a pilot  knows  just  where  he  is  on 
this  much  divided  river. 

We,  of  course,  clung  almost  within  touching  dis- 
tance of  the  bank,  to  ease  our  work  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, and  twice  we  narrowly  escaped  collision  with 
other  canoes  running  down  stream  at  a lively  pace. 


278 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


Three  times  we  stopped  at  the  thatched-roofed  house 
of  Pedro’s  always  polite  and  hospitable  friends,  to 
wipe  our  eyes  and  drink  the  Paraguayan  tea  which 
to  the  native  is  consolation  and  chief  liquid  nourish- 
ment, and  withal  a refreshing  beverage  for  anybody. 
This  tea  is  made  from  an  indigenous  holly-like  (ilex) 
plant  and  prepared  by  putting  its  powdered  leaves  in 
a small  gourd  and  pouring  in  boiling  water.  A few 
moments’  steeping  makes  it  ready  to  be  sucked  out 
of  the  gourd  receptacle  through  a tube  which  has  a 
perforated  expansion  at  one  end,  and  is  called  “ bom- 
billa  ” (little  pump).  This  tea  is  called  “ yerba 
mate,”  or  more  commonly  “ mate  ” — not  a very  defi- 
nite name  surely,  for  yerba  means  simply  herb,  and 
mate  is  the  dried  and  hollowed  gourd.  But,  however 
casually  named,  its  popularity  is  wide,  and  so  great 
that  cultivation  is  now  supplementing  the  supply 
which  comes  from  the  great  forests  of  Brazil,  Para- 
guay and  northern  Argentine.  Some  day  I expect 
the  drink  to  spread  beyond  South  America. 

Toward  the  close  of  day,  we  drew  up  to  a settle- 
ment of  half  a dozen  houses  set  snug  against  the  river 
bank,  and  here,  Pedro  announced,  was  his  “ casa  ” 
(house).  A quaint  two-room  adobe  it  was,  stuck 
against  the  bank  so  close  as  to  suggest  its  being  a 
vestibule  to  caverns  and  underground  passages  be- 
yond; a fancy  rather  helped  by  an  unroofed  shed 
which  joined  one  side.  But  the  house  really  tres- 
passed on  the  bank  no  farther  than  to  permit  of  a 
very  small  and  dark  coop  to  accommodate  the  three 
family  chickens.  If,  however,  Pedro  was  short  on 
chickens,  he  was  long  on  dogs,  having  five  of  various 
mongrel  degrees  and  size,  all  of  which  lived  indoors. 


THE  YERBA  MATE  CUP  THAT  CHEERS  279 


together  with  his  wife  and  four  children.  In  repose 
his  wife  looked  as  if  the  menage  got  on  her  nerves,  but 
in  conversation  she  far  outshone  Pedro.  The  differ- 
ence in  the  faces  of  these  Spanish- Americans  in  re- 
pose and  in  animation  is  the  difference  between  dark- 
ness and  sunlight. 

Outside  and  just  at  the  entrance  of  the  house  was 
an  open  portico  composed  of  a framework  of  poles 
and  a covering  of  rushes  and  small  brush,  where  the 
family  received  its  guests,  and  the  charcoal  burning 
stove  kept  the  kettle  going.  Here,  on  the  night  of 
our  arrival,  Pedro’s  friends  gathered  to  drink  mate, 
no  doubt  also  to  satisfy  their  curiosity  concerning 
the  stranger;  and  there  was  no  more  colour  among 
them,  or  among  those  of  other  settlements  subse- 
quently visited,  than  among  the  passengers  on  the 
steamer.  In  fact,  outside  of  the  Chaco,  Argentines 
are  of  the  one  type  everywhere,  perhaps  here  and 
there  an  individual  bit  of  colour,  but,  as  a rule,  all  cut 
off  the  same  piece  and  unpicturesqueness  as — Anglo- 
Saxons. 

The  mate  cup  is  to  the  Spanish- American  what 
the  peace-pipe  is  to  our  American  Indian.  The  cup 
itself  may  range  from  plain  gourd  to  elaborately  en- 
graved metal,  and  the  bombilla  may  be  a silver  tube 
or  a reed,  or  even  a curassow  leg  bone,  but,  like 
the  betel-nut  knife  of  the  Far  East,  its  significance 
is  unvarying.  It  makes  for  amiability  and  gossip 
and  story  telling.  There  is  often  the  little  prelimi- 
nary ceremony  of  starting  the  host’s  mate  at  one  side 
of  the  gathering  and  passing  it  around  like  a lov- 
ing cup,  each  guest  taking  his  turn  at  the  unwiped 
bombilla.  Not  fewer  than  a dozen  could  have  been 


280 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


seated  under  and  around  the  little  portico  on  this 
night  when  Pedro  started  the  mate  brew,  and  I hap- 
pened to  be  on  the  extreme  opposite  end  from  that 
whence  the  gourd  set  forth  on  its  convivial  cruise.  To 
have  deliberately  wiped  the  bombilla  when  it  came 
to  me  would  have  been  to  insult  my  host,  so  I clum- 
sily dropped  it  on  the  ground  to  give  me  the  needed 
excuse. 

Jaguar  and  jaguar  hunting  formed  the  main 
theme  of  the  stories  told  that  night,  and  disclosed  the 
very  wholesome  fear  these  natives  have  of  the  beast, 
though  they  do  not  hold  it  in  such  superstitious  dread, 
or  envelop  it  with  mystery  or  supernatural  power,  as 
the  Far  Eastern  natives  do  that  other  greater  cat,  the 
real  tiger.  Yet  the  voice  was  always  lowered  that 
night  in  Pedro’s  house  while  reciting  a thrilling  tale 
of  jaguar  ferocity,  and  when  Pedro  himself  told  of 
having  seen  a tigre,  not  twenty  miles  from  where 
he  sat,  spring  upon  a female  tapir,  crushing  her 
neck  in  one  bite  of  its  powerful  jaws,  the  silence 
which  followed  was  eloquent.  No  one  present  save 
Pedro  had  ever  hunted  tigre,  much  less  seen  a live 
one,  so  my  guide,  warmed  by  the  buzz  of  admira- 
tion which  greeted  and  the  hush  which  succeeded  his 
stories,  told  harrowing  yarns  of  men  walking  and 
mounted  who  had  been  overcome  by  jaguars  spring- 
ing upon  them  from  overhanging  tree  limbs.  Now 
the  truth  of  the  matter  is,  as  I took  pains  to  learn, 
that  while  these  native  stories  are  exaggerated,  as 
native  stories  always  are,  the  jaguar  is  formidable 
quarry.  There  are  well  authenticated  reports  in  the 
Argentine  of  his  pouncing  upon  the  solitary  traveller, 
and  of  his  killing  one  or  more  of  a native  hunting 


PEDRO  BRINGS  IN  HIS  DUG-OUT 


ON  THE  SALADO  RIVER 


THE  FISHING  CAT 


281 


party  that  had  wounded  and  cornered  him.  He  is  not 
nearly  so  numerous  as  he  was,  or  rather  is  seen  less 
frequently  than  formerly — not  that  he  has  been  killed 
off,  but  the  river  traffic  has  driven  him  back  from  the 
waterways  into  the  jungles  and  into  the  swamps  and 
smaller  river  courses  where  few  men  venture. 

The  trails  of  the  jaguar  are  many,  but  they  nearly 
all  lead  to  a river,  for  water  appears  to  be  more  need- 
ful to  the  tigre  than  to  any  other  of  the  cat  family. 
And  this  is  not  that  he  actually  drinks  more,  so  far 
as  I can  learn,  but  rather  because  along  the  water- 
ways he  finds  easy  and  abundant  food  supply  in  a 
river  hog,  in  the  small  deer,  and  in  the  fish  that  swim 
plentifully  in  all  these  streams.  In  the  Rio  de  la 
Plata,  just  off  Buenos  Aires,  is  an  island  where  at 
one  time  several  jaguar  lived  and  thrived  practically 
off  the  fish  they  caught.  There  was  no  other  life  on 
the  island  and  never  any  evidence  of  the  beasts  vis- 
iting the  mainland,  which,  so  far  as  distance  is  con- 
cerned, was  entirely  possible,  because  the  tigre  is  a 
strong,  bold  swimmer,  and  minds  no  river  of  South 
America,  not  the  widest,  if  he  wishes  to  reach  the 
opposite  bank.  He  is  a patient,  unerring  fisherman, 
watching  for  long  periods  from  some  vantage  point, 
which  may  be  either  a fallen  tree  trunk  extending 
into  the  stream,  or  at  the  bank’s  edge,  until  a vic- 
tim draws  within  reach,  when  with  a lightning  blow 
he  hurls  the  fish  out  onto  the  bank.  While  the 
swampy  jungle  and  the  water  courses  are  his  habitat, 
yet  the  jaguar  will  make  incursions  upon  dry  ground 
if  cattle,  or  horses,  or  dogs,  or  poultry  off er,  and  river 
food  happens  to  be  scarce,  or  for  the  time  being  more 


282 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


difficult  to  secure.  I heard  several  trustworthy  ac- 
counts of  cattle  and  colts  killed  by  the  jaguar. 

Pedro  quoted  a gray-haired  herder,  who  had  wit- 
nessed the  performance,  as  authority  for  asserting 
that  the  jaguar’s  method  of  killing  animals  of  this  size 
is  to  literally  stalk  them  up-wind  to  within  the  distance 
of  a few  bounds  and  then  to  rush  upon  them,  spring- 
ing on  their  back  and  fastening  teeth  and  claws  in 
their  neek.  In  attacking  smaller  animals  the  jaguar 
springs  at  once  for  the  neck,  and  appears  to  prefer 
the  hindquarters  to  the  stomaeh,  which  is  left  for  the 
vidtures  that  are  omnipresent  in  the  open  country. 
Tigre  is  a much  noisier  animal  than  any  other  of  the 
feline  family,  particularly  at  night,  and  roams  the 
jungle  disdainful  of  lesser  beasts  in  his  manifest  su- 
periority. Without  doubt,  he  is  absolute  king  of  the 
South  American  forest;  there  is  literally  none  to  dis- 
pute his  domain,  none  even  worthy  to  do  him  homage ; 
for  the  puma,  which  is  the  darker  coated  southern 
brother  to  our  cougar,  has  as  little  the  courage  of  its 
convictions  in  South  as  in  North  America. 

From  Venezuela  to  Patagonia  the  jaguar  is  com- 
monly said  to  attack  man  unprovoked,  but,  as  I have 
already  said,  such  occasions  are  rare;  all  the  same,  it’s 
well  to  keep  your  eyes  open  when  entering  his  do- 
main. The  puma,  cougar,  panther,  mountain  lion 
(as  variously  called),  tackles  deer,  sheep,  goats,  dogs, 
colts — I have  heard  of  its  springing  upon  horses — but 
except  when  painfully  wounded  and  cornered,  this  cat 
will  not  molest  man,  though  I did  hear  of  its  falling 
upon  a sleeping  native  in  the  Argentine. 

In  the  interior  of  Brazil,  where  not  many  people 
have  ventured,  the  jaguar  is  reported  to  most  fre- 


POOR  WEAPONS  FOR  TIGRE 


283 


qucDtly  lurk  in  the  low,  overhanging  branches  of 
trees,  near  the  rivers,  and  from  these  to  pounce  upon 
its  prey.  In  the  Argentine  Chaco,  where  tigre  is 
said  to  have  more  than  once  taken  toll,  the  Indians 
are  deathly  afraid  of  him,  for  their  arrows  and  spears 
are  not  very  suitable  weapons  with  which  to  meet  an 
enemy  at  once  so  swift  and  so  powerful.  Along  the 
western  edges  of  the  Chaco  certain  of  the  “ estancias  ” 
(large  ranches)  keep  dogs  and  hunt  jaguar  with  some 
success ; under  such  conditions  tigre  takes  to  a tree  like 
the  cougar.  Quite  unlike,  however,  the  latter  pusil- 
lanimous creature,  which,  having  crawled  to  a perch, 
suffers  all  manner  of  indignity  without  response,  the 
jaguar  may  not  be  trifled  with.  No  native  climbs 
within  arm’s  reach  to  poke  him  with  a pole  from 
the  limb;  in  fact,  he  is  quite  likely  to  spring  from 
the  tree  upon  his  tormentors. 

Up  the  Parana  beyond  a small  chain  of  hills  called 
Cuchilla  Montiel,  that  run  northeast  and  south- 
west across  northern  Entre  Rios  into  Corrientes,  we 
turned  into  the  Rio  Feliciano,  which,  rising  in  Cor- 
rientes, flows  parallel  with  the  Cuchilla  and  is  fed 
en  route  by  several  other  streams  having  their  source 
in  the  hills.  Feliciano  has  the  characteristics  of  all 
South  American  rivers  of  the  tributary  class, 
which  are  smaller  editions  of  the  larger  ones,  except 
that  often  the  water  is  clearer  and  the  better  de- 
fined inland  banks  sometimes  freer  of  the  dense 
tropical  growth.  We  paddled  through  a rather  open, 
flat  country  supporting  scattered  trees,  rank  grass 
shoulder  high,  willows,  and  abounding  bird  life.  One 
brown  bird  about  robin  size,  with  a long  tail  and  a 
white  streak  on  its  breast,  had  a song  somewhat  like 


284 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


the  meadow  lark,  and  in  the  early  morning  hours, 
before  other  life  was  astir,  its  liquid  notes  made 
pleasing  music.  Another,  smaller,  of  dark  body  and 
yellow  wings,  uttered  no  note,  but  zigzagged  con- 
stantly across  our  horizon ; and  I saw  several  varieties 
of  blackbird,  two  cardinals,  some  flamingoes,  and 
occasional  members  of  the  crane  family.  Mostly  the 
smaller  birds  were  songsters  and  quite  friendly. 

But  one  bird,  always  in  evidence,  which  Pedro 
called  the  “ teru-tero,”  was  not  such  acceptable  com- 
pany. It  is  a noisy,  perky  imp,  about  the  size  of  a 
pigeon,  and  so  long  as  we  were  in  the  comparative 
open,  it  followed,  scolding  us  in  untuneful,  harsh  voice, 
as  though  resenting  our  intrusion.  It  was  tame  to  the 
point  of  audacity;  one  stood  on  the  bank  within  half 
a dozen  feet  as  we  glided  past,  and  again  as  we  rested 
for  a meal,  another  perched  on  the  canoe  stern  and 
slanged  us  with  uninterrupted  vehemence.  When 
we  reached  the  jungle  edge  we  escaped  the  teru-tero, 
but  suffered  martyrdom  at  the  throat  of  another 
smaller  bird  termagant,  which,  in  rasping  tones, 
shrieked  at  us  unabatingly.  If  these  birds  are  in 
league  with  tigre,  as  is  said,  he  could  not  have  two 
scouts  more  alert  and  distracting. 

Except  for  this  pair  of  brawlers,  the  bird  life 
was  most  inviting;  indeed,  the  Argentine  birds  as  a 
class,  while  less  brilliant  as  to  plumage  than  Brazil, 
for  instance,  have  more  agreeable  voices.  Within 
the  jungle  occasionally  I saw  the  toucan,  with  its 
ridiculously  large  orange-coloured  beak,  twice  the 
size  of  its  bluish-black,  pigeon-shaped  and  white- 
breasted body.  It  is  an  awkward,  comical  looking 
bird,  that  lives  solitary  and  shuns  observation.  In 


THE  TALE  OF  A LIZARD 


285 


this  particular  section  where  all  plant  life  appeared 
to  be  horned  either  at  leaf-point  or  at  its  junction 
with  the  stalk,  I noted  with  speculative  interest  the 
many  birds  that  are  hooded  or  tufted. 

In  the  night,  along  the  river,  great  fire-flies  such 
as  I had  never  seen,  even  in  Siam — land  of  insect 
plenty — hovered  over  us,  bearing  lights  that  appeared 
to  be  constant,  and  in  some  individual  cases  to  be 
double.  No  doubt  it  is  these  more  brilliant  night 
lamps  which  the  women  of  northern  Argentine  and 
Paraguay  wear  in  their  hair  on  festal  occasions. 

Two  or  three  times  Pedro  tried,  though  unsuc- 
cessfully, to  kill  a crocodile  with  a long,  iron-pointed 
spear  he  carried,  and  once  his  attempt  nearly  resulted 
in  upsetting  the  canoe.  Again  he  secured  a hideous 
looking  lizard  creature  for  which  he  gave  an  unfa- 
miliar name,  but  which  to  me  looked  to  be  of  the 
iguana  family.  It  had  a red  and  green  speckled  skin 
and  was  about  two  and  one-half  feet  long,  with  a short, 
thick  tail,  which  Pedro  proceeded  to  cut  otF,  subse- 
quently to  cook  and  eat  with  unconcealed  gusto.  I 
did  not  share  his  feast,  much  preferring  the  native 
“ puchero,”  a stew  of  dried  beef  and  rice,  which,  with 
hard  biscuit  and  coffee,  comprised  our  menu.  The 
puchero,  by  the  way,  may  be  rice  and  dried  beef,  and 
very  tough,  or  it  may  be  beef  and  rice  and  potatoes 
and  turnips  and  carrots  and  various  other  green  vege- 
tables that  go  to  make  a most  palatable  concoction. 
It  may  also  be  all  this  with  fish  replacing  the  beef,  and 
remain  toothsome. 

Gradually  we  worked  away  from  the  level  coun- 
try into  forest  and  smaller  hills,  and  in  these  drier, 
upper  sections  toward  the  Cuchilla,  after  we  left 


286 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


our  dugout,  I had  my  first  view  of  the  famous  algar- 
robo,  the  native’s  all-useful  tree,  from  which  he  ex- 
tracts drink  and  covering.  Here,  too,  soaring  over 
our  heads  or  alighting  with  pendent,  springy  legs, 
were  numerous  of  those  ugly  but  very  useful  bird 
things,  the  turkey  buzzard,  which  Peru  protects  as  a 
common  scavenger,  Argentine  and  Brazil  tolerate, 
and  Chile  mistakenly  has  banished. 

If  ever  you  make  a hunt  into  the  swampy  interior 
of  South  America,  take  my  advice  and  wear  the 
comparatively  hotter  spiral  cloth  puttee,  because 
woodticks  are  innumerable  and  infernal  and  attack 
the  ankle,  which  they  reach  easily  between  shoe  and 
the  ordinary  legging,  whether  it  be  of  canvas  or 
leather.  Then  there  is  also  the  jigger — another  ma- 
lignant insect  that  burrows  into  you,  depositing  its 
head  to  inflame  your  skin  and  harass  your  peace  of 
mind  while  it  goes  off  to  grow  another  fester-breed- 
ing head,  for  the  torment  of  the  next  traveller. 

We  had  seen  several  small  deer,  river  hogs,  and 
many  times  a swimming  animal  whose  head  sug- 
gested otter,  but  which  Pedro  declared  to  be  a 
fish-cat,  to  quote  literally  from  the  Spanish  name  he 
gave  it.  None  of  these  I troubled,  because  they  did 
not  interest  me,  and  we  wanted  no  meat.  Once  a 
little  deer,  about  the  size  of  a fawn,  and  of  a light- 
ish brown  colour,  carrying  spike  horns,  stood  gazing 
at  us  long  enough  for  me  to  snap-shot  it  with  my 
camera,  but  this,  like  all  the  other  such  attempts 
in  the  almost  continuous  rain  from  December  to 
April  and  poor  light  of  the  jungle,  came  to  noth- 
ing in  development.  I find  in  these  latter-day  jaunts 
that  I much  prefer  to  photograph  or  to  study  strange 


THE  HUGE  WHEELED  DRAUGHT-CARTS  OF  THE  ARGENTINE  PAMPAS 


SIMILARITY  OF  TROPICAL  JUNGLE  287 


animal  life  than  to  shoot.  So  I never  kill  except  the 
particular  quarry  I am  seeking,  or  those  strange  to 
me  for  the  purpose  of  closer  acquaintance.  But 
South  America,  during  the  rainy  season,  is  a sad  dis- 
appointment to  the  amateur  photographer. 

On  this  occasion  I indeed  had  eyes  for  nothing 
but  jaguar,  and  you  may  be  sure  that  with  Pedro’s 
exciting  stories  fresh  in  mind,  I passed  under 
no  tree  in  the  jungle  without  first  narrowly  scruti- 
nizing the  overhanging  limbs.  The  real  jungle  here 
differs  very  little,  if  at  all,  from  tropical  jungle  the 
world  over.  There  is  the  same  primeval  forest,  the 
dense  growth  of  smaller,  younger  trees,  the  rank, 
thorn-covered  underbrush,  all  interlaced  and  bound 
together  with  creeping  things  of  every  length  and 
thickness  and  twisting  form.  Below  all  is  the  swamp- 
like soil,  and  around  you  the  dank,  noisome,  warm 
smell  of  steaming,  fermenting  vegetation. 

The  section  we  hunted  seemed  made  to  order  for 
jaguar.  The  river  with  its  plentiful  food  to  the  east, 
dense  jungle  and  higher  hills  on  the  west,  and  be- 
yond, the  more  open  country  where  the  deer  roamed. 
Far  into  the  jungle  we  heard  no  bird  note  or  any 
other  sound  by  day,  but  at  night  it  seemed  as  though 
the  trees,  the  mud  and  the  air  surrounding  us  were 
alive  with  creaking,  rasping  things.  Ajid,  however 
far  we  penetrated,  we  never  got  beyond  the  woodtick 
zone  or  that  of  the  mosquitoes,  which  became  numer- 
ous to  distraction. 

Pedro  ceased  to  be  a guide  once  we  got  into  the 
jungle  and  became  instead  a much  bullied  and  dis- 
respected master  of  hounds.  At  times  he  would  put 
me  on  edge  with  a sudden,  low,  drawn-out  hiss-s-s-ss; 


288 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


upon  which,  only  my  patient,  alert  hunter’s  soul  knows 
how  many  anxious  minutes  I would  spend  scanning 
with  painful  closeness  every  tree  in  the  vicinity. 
Then  forward  without  a word.  Again  a sharp,  short 
hist  would  stop  me  in  my  tracks  with  visions  of  jaguar 
directly  overhead.  And  again  I would  move  on  un- 
rewarded. Pedro  was  a well-meaning,  but  a some- 
what disconcerting  element,  and  pleased  me  most  when 
he  was  out  of  sight,  as  he  was  for  more  than  half  the 
time,  concealed  by  the  high,  rank  growth  through 
which  we  worked.  Always  I studied  the  bare  spots 
carefully  for  signs  of  jaguar  and  several  times  found 
ample  evidence  on  nearby  trees  of  his  visits  to  the 
locality,  in  deep,  oblique  scars,  where  he  had  reached 
high  and  dug  his  claws  into  the  bark,  as  every  mem- 
ber of  the  cat  family  will  do,  to  smooth  ragged  claw 
edges — and  not  to  sharpen  them,  we  read.  One 
tree  I saw  was  deeply  scarred  with  slanting  lines  a 
foot  in  length,  where  tigre  had  been  at  work. 

But  scars  were  all  that  rewarded  our  search  for 
jaguar  on  that  trip. 

We  hunted  diligently  and  widely,  yet  to  find  our 
quarry  without  dogs  was  one  chance  in  a hundred; 
and  we  were  as  good  as  being  without  dogs,  for  those 
we  brought  from  Pedro’s  house,  to  which  his  well- 
disposed  neighbours  had  contributed,  were  absolutely 
useless.  While  we  were  on  the  river  they  spent  their 
time  and  energy  chasing  the  teru-tero;  and  when  we 
entered  the  jungle,  woodticks  absorbed  every  particle 
of  their  time  and  energy. 

For  the  woodtick,  it  seems,  dearly  loves  dog  even 
better  than  it  does  man. 

Returning  to  the  river  with  hope  of  jaguar  aban- 


THE  BEST  SPORT  IN  ARGENTINE 


S89 


doned,  I easily  killed  a bushy-back  ant  bear  after 
noting  its  queer  jumpy  trot;  a tapir  browsing  be- 
side a small,  deep  stream;  and  a swamp  deer;  but 
none  of  them  afforded  sport.  In  fact,  if  your  idea 
of  sport  is  beyond  the  mere  killing  of  things,  there 
isn’t  much  for  you  here  but  the  birds,  as  the  condi- 
tions make  hunting  a mere  potting  after  happening 
upon  your  quarry.  By  this  method  I shot  several 
small  deer,  one  with  six  points,  the  others  having  only 
a pair  of  spikes,  and  most  of  them  dark  gray;  three 
cavies,  a twelve  to  fifteen-pound  rabbit-like  animal; 
and  a “ carpincho,”  as  the  uninteresting  and  stupid 
capybara  is  known  in  this  part  of  South  America. 

The  greatest  sport  I had,  and,  to  my  mind,  the 
best  in  all  the  Argentine,  was  bola  hunting  the  local 
“ ostrich  ” {Rhea  Americana)  on  the  pampas.  Al- 
though getting  near  enough  I was  too  unskilled  in 
throwing  the  bolas  to  score,  but  I had  all  the  fun  of  an 
exhilarating  gallop.  The  rhea  is  also  stalked  with  a 
rifle,  and  is  always  hard  to  get  on  account  of  its  wari- 
ness. Also  I had  great  sport  with  the  shotgun  on 
several  kinds  of  the  curassow  or  grouse-like  family 
(some  of  them  great  runners)  and  particularly  on  a 
bird  about  guinea-hen  size  called  “ pavo  del  monte  ” 
(wood  turkey)  by  the  natives.  Had  I been  able  to 
take  the  time  I could  have  done  equally  well  on  ducks, 
of  which  there  are  thousands  of  many  species  up  and 
down  the  river. 

But  you  need  a good  dog — a rattling  good  re- 
triever— else  you’ll  lose  half  you  shoot. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
OUTFITTING  FOR  JUNGLE  TRAVEL 


It  is  a rash  man  who  waxeth  didactic  on  the  sub- 
ject of  camp  equipment.  The  wise  wilderness  trav- 
eller, which  is  to  say  the  experienced  one,  does  not 
dogmatize;  but  the  tyro  who  ventures  into  the  jun- 
gle without  drawing  upon  the  knowledge  of  those 
who  have  it,  is  foolish  beyond  hope  of  saving. 

The  kit  is  largely  an  expression  of  personal  prej- 
udice, which  a veteran  will  not  indulge  too  freely  and 
never  at  the  expense  of  efficiency.  But  to  separate 
the  wheat  from  the  chaff  among  the  multitudinous 
and  confusing  array  of  impedimenta  offered  by  well- 
meaning  advisers  and  alluring  advertisements,  re- 
quires a cold  heart  and  a discriminating  hand.  Even 
among  the  “ old  guard  ” kits  and  outfits  vary  accord- 
ing to  conditions,  temperament,  and  the  nature  or 
locality  of  experience. 

Whatever  the  conditions  and  whatever  the  adven- 
ture or  however  erratic  the  temperament,  two  feat- 
ures, however,  are  common  to  the  genuinely  expe- 
rienced— namely,  adequate  equipment  so  far  as  trans- 
portation permits,  and  the  best  bed  possible  at  the 
nightly  camp.  No  one  thing  is  more  surely  indicative 
of  the  campaigner  than  the  bed;  which,  whether  for  a 
single  night  or  a week,  he  invariably  makes  as  com- 
fortable as  conditions  and  his  skill  will  allow.  The 
man  who  does  not  sleep  well  and  eat  well  does  not 
stand  up  under  hardships  or  travel  far.  In  a word, 
I may  indeed  say,  that  the  test  of  experience  is  to  ex- 

290 


A SURE  SIGN  OF  EXPERIENCE 


291 


tract  rude  comfort  and  clean  camps  out  of  the  mate- 
rial at  hand,  however  unpromising. 

The  man  who  unnecessarily  cuts  his  equipment  to 
needless  limitations,  abandoning  simple  and  legiti- 
mate eamp  comforts  under  the  impression  that  he  is 
simulating  the  veteran,  proelaims  his  novitiate.  Theo- 
dore Roosevelt,  with  characteristic  clarity,  places  this 
type  among  the  “ harmless  defectives  ” who  should 
not  enter  the  woods  without  a guardian ; and  Stewart 
Edward  White  refers  often  in  his  several  outdoor 
classics  to  the  vainglorious  tenderfoot  who  denies 
himself  when  transportation  is  ample,  and  puts  aside 
actual  necessities  in  the  spirit  of  bravado.  Such  a 
one  exhibits  neither  the  attributes  of  the  wilderness 
traveller  nor  of  the  man  of  sense.  He  is  just  plain 
silly,  doing  what  is  expected  of  the  veriest  beginner. 

It  demands  neither  hardihood  nor  experience,  for 
example,  to  leave  at  home  the  extra  pair  of  shoes. 
Apropos  of  which  false  attitude,  I recall  vividly  cer- 
tain groups  of  volunteers  whom  I found  with  beds 
made  down  in  the  mud  before  Santiago,  though  brush 
in  abundance  grew  all  round.  They  scouted  my  sug- 
gestion to  lay  a deep  bed  of  brush  before  spreading 
their  blankets  as  an  action  unworthy  a soldier,  pro- 
fessing to  regard  sueh  precaution  as  effeminate;  even 
chaffing  me,  “ an  old  eampaigner,”  for  thought  of  it. 
Later,  a eonsiderable  percentage  of  these  men  were 
laid  up  with  fever,  superinduced  by  sleeping  on  the 
rain-soaked  ground.  There  was  nothing  soldierly  in 
such  stupidity — if  the  truth  be  told,  indeed,  it  was 
unsoldierly — for  it  is  no  small  part  of  the  volunteer’s 
duty  to  keep  fit. 

Equipment  is  governed  by  where  you  are  going 


292 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


and  how;  and,  as  I say,  the  man  of  experience  builds 
his  outfit  accordingly.  Under  conditions  of  compara- 
tively open  country  and  unrestricted  transportation 
he  will  indulge  himself.  Thus,  in  India,  I have  at- 
tended tiger  and  rhino  hunting  junkets  embracing 
three  or  four  hundred  beaters  and  upwards  of  a hun- 
dred elephants,  where  tables,  chairs,  valets,  jams,  even 
champagne  and  bathtubs,  were  the  camp  rule.  In 
Africa,  where  carts  and  hundreds  of  porters  are  pos- 
sible, creature  comforts  which  would  be  classed  as 
luxuries  elsewhere  in  the  average  hunter’s  camp  are 
articles  of  common  supply.  Nor  is  such  luxurious 
equipment  in  such  environment  indicative  of  the  dilet- 
tante, as  the  near-hunter  is  prone  to  think.  It  is 
merely  carrying  out  to  a logical  degree  the  campaign 
principle  that  one  should  always  do  for  himself  the 
best  possible  in  the  circumstances.  According  to  car- 
riage make  your  outfit  as  extensive  as  you  please  so 
long  as  it  continues  appropriate. 

The  truth  is  that  the  actual  personal  kit  of  the  ex- 
perienced man  is  alwavs  simple  and  varies  little  either 
in  quality  or  scope — whatever  the  transportation 
facilities. 

As  bearing  on  this  averment  I am  tempted  to 
quote  a paragraph  from  an  entertaining  article  on 
“ Kits  and  Outfits  ” Richard  Harding  Davis  wrote 
for  Scribner's  in  1905,  based  on  his  observations  while 
serving  as  war  correspondent: 

In  one  war  in  which  I worked  for  an  English  paper,  we 
travelled  like  major-generals.  . . . Everyone  travelled  with 
more  than  he  needed  and  more  than  the  regulations  allowed, 
and  each  correspondent  was  advised  that  if  he  represented 


“ GOING  LIGHT  ” 


293 


a first-class  paper  and  wished  to  “ save  his  face  ” he  had 
better  travel  in  state.  When  the  army  stripped  down  to 
work,  all  this  was  discontinued,  but  at  the  start  I believe 
there  were  carried  with  that  column  as  many  tins  of  tan 
leather  dressing  as  there  were  rifles.  On  that  march  my 
own  outfit  was  as  unwieldy  as  a gypsy  caravan.  It  consisted 
of  an  enormous  cart,  two  oxen,  three  Basuto  ponies,  one 
Australian  horse,  three  servants  and  four  hundred  pounds 
of  supplies  and  baggage.  When  it  moved  across  the  plain 
it  looked  as  large  as  a Fall  River  boat.  Later,  when  I 
joined  the  opposing  army  and  was  not  expected  to  main- 
tain the  dignity  of  a great  London  daily,  I carried  all  my 
belongings  strapped  to  my  back  and  to  the  back  of  one  pony ; 
and  I was  quite  as  comfortable,  clean  and  content  as  I had 
been  with  a private  car  and  circus  tent. 

“ Going  light  ” is  the  touchstone  of  experience. 
It  is  also  a bone  of  ceaseless  contention  among  hunt- 
ers whose  interpretations  range  and  differ  as  widely 
as  their  experiences — and  inexperiences.  There  is 
going  light  and  going  light — according  to  means  of 
transportation  and  whether  you  are  planning  merely 
a camping  trip  or  an  adventure  into  the  wilderness. 
So  very  much  depends  on  circumstances  as  to  make 
hard  and  fast  rules  impertinent. 

Whatever  I write  here  is  out  of  my  own  expe- 
rience and  observation  with  no  disposition  to  proclaim 
my  conclusions  inerrable ; and  in  no  sense  to  lay  down 
the  law.'  I have  gone  “ light  ” on  forty-five  pounds 
with  a single  horse;  again  on  some  of  my  exploration 
hunting  trips  from  the  base  of  supplies,  I have  taken 
less  than  twenty  pounds.  It  all  depends,  as  I say, 
where  you  are  going,  and  how,  and  for  what. 

Writing  of  the  interior  and  not  of  its  edges  where 


294 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


in  many  places  travel  by  horse  or  even  by  bullock 
cart  is  possible,  jungle  travel  is  either  on  foot  or  by 
canoe.  In  the  deep  jungle  of  South  America  and 
of  the  Far  East,  you  find  your  way  along  the  water 
courses  or  on  portage;  or  you  wind  slowly  through 
the  rank  entangling  undergrowth  of  the  great  forest 
often  only  by  help  of  3'our  machete. 

I need  not  say  your  outfit  must  be  assembled  ac- 
cording to  whether  the  journey  is  to  be  by  canoe  and 
horse,  or  by  canoe  alone;  and  whether  the  route  is 
broken  by  portages,  rapids  or  cataracts.  Nine-tenths 
of  the  travel  in  the  deep  jungle,  however,  is  by  canoe 
or  on  foot,  and  in  either  case  equipment  must  be  re- 
duced to  the  lightest.  I have  been  able  to  keep  my 
personal  outfit  under  such  conditions  within  dimen- 
sions that  easily  fitted  into  a waterproof  canvas  bag 
which  might  be  packed  on  my  own  back  across  the 
portage.  Travelling  by  horse,  I have  found  nothing 
so  serviceable  as  a strip  of  waterproof  canvas — about 
the  length  of  a single  blanket  and  a foot  wider — fitted 
^vith  an  inside  flap  pocket  in  which  to  stow  extra  cloth- 
ing and  such  valuables  as  films  and  note-books. 
Closely  rolled,  this  can  be  handily  carried  behind  your 
saddle.  And  in  packing  blankets  and  duffle  gener- 
ally, it  is  well  always  to  make  a running  noose  knot 
in  the  tie  rope  that  you  may  loosen  quickly  in  case  of 
emergency. 

Most  of  my  jungle  canoeing  has  been  in  the  rainy 
season  when  to  keep  provisions  dry  is  the  chief  end 
sought.  For  this  purpose  I advise  a tarpaulin — 
and  buy  it  in  your  home  city;  I paid  thirty  dollars 
for  a ten-dollar  piece  at  Para,  in  Brazil.  For  your- 
self, be  prepared  to  be  thoroughly  soaked  much  of  the 


@IBip 


A "marble”  HLXTING  KNIFE NOTE  THE  STRAIGHT  LINE  OF  BLADE  BACK  AT  POINT 


THE  PRESTON  MESS-KIT  ASSEMBLED 


THE  PRESTON  MESS-KIT  AND  HALF-SIZE  CANTEEN  IN  DETAIL 


KEEPING  DRY 


295 


time  if  you  penetrate  the  equatorial  forest  during  the 
wet  months.  You  simply  cannot  escape;  it’s  part  of 
the  tropical  game.  In  the  eanoe,  my  Indians  always 
stripped  to  a loin  cloth  during  rain,  and  I finally 
adopted  the  same  course  as  the  most  practical  solution 
of  “ keeping  dry.”  Clothes  were  chiefly  serviceable  as 
protection  again  the  sun.  The  thickly  growing,  ag- 
gressively armed  thorn  brush  forbade  our  stripping 
in  the  forest,  and  even  a water-logged  shirt  has  pro- 
tective qualities  all  its  own.  The  much  touted  rub- 
ber poncho  is  a poor  thing  for  the  tropics,  in  my 
opinion;  it  is  hot  and  it  is  not  waterproof.  The  one 
real  waterproof  I’ve  ever  discovered  is  the  “ slicker  ” 
(oilskin),  which  is  possible  only  for  the  saddle  in 
comparative  open  going,  or  on  boat  when  you  are 
travelling  more  or  less  at  ease. 

For  my  individual  use  on  inland  travel,  I’ve  never 
found  anything  I like  so  well  as  the  Preston  Mess 
Kit,  which  has  two  fry  pans  (also  possible  as  stew 
pans),  a cup  (answering  as  well  for  coffee  pot),  a 
knife  and  fork  and  spoon  fitted  round  a half-size 
canteen,  leaving  space  for  emergency  rations,  and 
all  enclosed  in  a canvas  case  with  canvas  strap  for 
slinging  over  the  shoulder.  As  I invariably  carry  a 
knife  on  my  belt,  I replace  the  one  of  the  canteen 
by  a toothbrush  and  comb — when  travelling  light — 
thus  having  both  toilet  and  mess  kit  in  compact  form 
— a desideratum  when  everything  must  be  toted  on 
your  back. 

In  clothes  and  shoes,  I have  found  khaki  and 
canvas  unquestionably  the  best;  though  do  not  wear 
half  (low)  shoes  in  an  insect-infested  country  with- 
out the  spiral  cloth  puttee,  which  will  help  to  keep  the 


296 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


woodtick  family  from  getting  under  your  trousers. 
When  leggings  are  used  I advise  the  army  pattern; 
they  are  simple  and  durable.  The  canvas  shoe  is  a 
long  way  the  most  desirable,  because  it  does  not  hold 
water  like  one  of  leather  and  comes  nearer  to  drying 
— nothing  once  wet  ever  really  dries  in  the  jungle 
interior  without  fire. 

Physicians  and  the  majority  of  campers  agree 
upon  wool  for  drawers  and  socks  under  all  climatic 
conditions,  but  the  only  time  I ever  used  wool  was 
when  I snowshoed  after  musk  oxen  in  the  Arctics; 
you  probably  won’t  wear  either  socks  or  drawers 
while  you  are  paddling  in  tropical  rainy  season.  Light 
gray  flannel  is  the  best  for  the  shirt,  and  you  should 
carry  also  a light  flannel  coat,  as  there  is  often  a damp 
chill  in  the  air  which  is  apt  to  be  dangerous  after  a 
long-continued  downpour,  and  light  flannel  pajamas. 

If  you  can  get  them,  there  is  nothing  round  camp 
to  equal  the  “ alpargata,”  the  sandal  shoe  of  the 
Venezuelan  native;  otherwise  take  a pair  of  easy  slip- 
pers or  old  shoes  with  the  counters  cut  off.  You  will 
find  them  a great  comfort.  In  fact,  it’s  one  of  the  lux- 
uries in  which  I indulge  myself,  even  if  I have  to 
cut  down  on  some  of  the  necessities.  Another  item 
in  the  same  class  is  a bandanna  handkerchief,  which 
has  many  uses  apart  from  the  conventional  one. 

A hammock  is  the  bed  of  the  tropics  and  indis- 
pensable because  it  is  the  cleanest  and  the  easiest 
procured;  and  to  carry  a cot  in  a canoe  or  on  a horse 
is  impracticable.  Comfortable  sleeping,  however, 
rests  upon  its  being  properly  hung.  Nine  men  out 
of  ten  not  South  American  born  string  the  hammock 
too  taut,  i.e.,  they  tie  the  ends  too  far  apart.  Cor- 


Photo  by  t;.  M.  I,.  Hro»wi  VENEZUELAN  WAYSIDE  RESTING  PLACE  OF  THE  BEST  CLASS 


THE  BED 


297 


rectly  swung  it  should  show  quite  a how  in  the  cen- 
tre, more  of  the  letter  U shape  than  is  usually  allowed 
by  the  unskilled,  in  order  that  you  may  lie  diagonally 
across  it.  A strip  of  table  oilcloth,  three  yards  long 
and  one  and  a half  wide,  with  socket  at  each  end  for 
the  stretchers,  provides  a fairly  waterproof  awning 
for  your  hammock  during  moderate  rain. 

If  you  are  travelling  by  the  main  rivers  on  boats 
large  enough  to  accommodate  a cot,  it  is,  of  course,  a 
very  desirable  addition  which  you  may  discard  when 
you  come  to  your  canoe.  Several  excellent  ones  are 
made  especially  for  tropic  travel,  the  most  complete 
being  the  “ bed  oriental,”  of  Levy  Freres  & Co., 
Paris,  with  uprights  that  serve  either  for  the  mosquito 
netting  or  the  waterproof.  Such  an  affair  is  too  heavy 
except  for  steamer  or  caravan  travel,  and  not  to  be 
thought  of  in  a canoe,  or  even  in  a batelao,  unless  it 
be  a large  one  or  without  cargo.  By  all  means  take 
along  a cot  should  you  do  any  steamer  touring  on 
tropical  rivers ; and  the  “ Gold  Medal  ” is  the  handiest 
folding  pattern  I have  used. 

Sleeping  on  ground  or  rock  or  the  bottom  of  a 
canoe  is  hard  sleeping  at  best,  but  may  be  eased  a 
bit.  It  is  most  comfortable,  of  course,  to  rest  on 
your  back,  but  you  need  the  refreshment  of  turning 
on  the  side  occasionally;  and  such  a position  can  be 
eased  by  extending  the  under  elbow  at  right  angles 
from  the  body,  stretching  out  the  under  leg  at 
full  length  and  drawing  up  the  top  leg — bent  at 
the  knee.  Thus  the  body  has  the  triangular 
support  of  the  knee  of  the  upper  leg,  the  muscles 
of  the  under  thigh  and  the  under  arm;  all 
of  which  relieves  the  hip  bone.  Do  not  make  your 


298 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


pillow  too  high.  High  pillows  strain  the  neck  muscles 
and  throw  more  pressure  on  the  hip  bone ; and  if  you 
are  in  a narrow  dugout,  don’t  spread  the  canvas  sheet 
under  your  blanket  to  the  very  edges  of  the  floor,  as 
the  water  coming  over  the  side  will  thus  be  caught  and 
drained  into  your  bed,  whereas,  if  you  leave  a space 
between  the  sides  of  your  bed  and  the  insides  of  the 
canoe,  the  w'ater  will  trickle  to  the  keel. 

Some  people  like  the  sleeping  bag.  I don’t ; 
neither  for  the  arctics  nor  the  tropics;  it  is  either  too 
cold  or  too  hot  and  never  cleanly.  On  my  winter 
musk  ox  hunt,  I started  into  the  Barren  Grounds 
with  a bag  made  of  caribou  and  lined  with  rabbit 
skin,  the  very  warmest  robe  possible,  but  I ripped  it 
open  before  I had  been  on  the  road  three  days.  No 
less  distinguished  an  explorer  than  Peary  does  not 
favor  the  bag  for  his  personal  use.  But  if  you  want 
a sleeping  bag,  try  a wool  one,  which  Fiala,  the  Arc- 
tic explorer,  has  recently  patented;  it  appears  to  me 
the  least  objectionable  of  any  I have  seen;  though  I 
cannot  imagine  any  one  using  a sleeping  bag  in  the 
stewing  tropics. 

Before  leaving  the  personal  equipment  subject,  I 
must  allude  to  one  article — a chair — which  sounds 
luxurious,  but  that  has  given  me  more  real  joy  on 
long  trips  than  any  single  article  of  my  outfit.  After 
a hard  day  in  the  saddle,  or  of  continuous  paddling, 
the  pleasure  of  sitting  in  a chair  is  ver}^  considerable. 
Whenever  possible,  I include  one:  the  same  one  and 
the  best — a takedown  model  I first  saw  in  India, 
where  it  originated,  and  is  still  called  the  “ roorkee,” 
but  which  is  now  made  in  England,  where  it  may  be 
bought  at  the  Army  and  Navy  stores.  It  can  be  rolled 


THE 


ROORKEE.” 


TAKEDOWN  CAMP  CHAIR  WHICH  THE  AUTHOR  HAS  CARRIED  AROUND  THE 
WORLD  AND  CONSIDERS  THE  BEST  MODEL  OF  ITS  KIND 


41N.X5IN.X3FT.2INX0NJ 


THE  GOLD  MEDAL  FOLDING  COT 


BOIL  YOUR  DRINKING  WATER 


299 


into  a comparatively  small  parcel,  about  17  x 7 
inches,  and  is  really  a comfortable  armchair  for  camp 
or  steamer. 

Every  hunter  has  his  own  ideas  as  to  pots,  pans 
and  the  like,  so  I will  suggest  only  two  items — 
the  iron  tripod  cooking  stand;  and  the  cuia,  or  cala- 
bash, as  the  gourd  bowl  is  called,  which,  in  size  from 
a cup  to  a big  basin,  is  lighter  and  stands  more  knock- 
ing than  any  camp  utensil  I know.  Curiously  enough, 
firewood  in  the  tropics,  even  in  the  midst  of  the  great 
forest,  does  not  come  easily  to  hand,  so  you  need  to 
make  what  you  get  go  far,  and  for  this  purpose  the 
tripod  is  unexcelled. 

I never  make  a journey  without  a collapsible  lan- 
tern and  a collapsible  canvas  bucket.  F or  the  former 
I use  what  are  known  as  sick-room  candles,  which, 
however,  require  a larger  socket  you  must  have  fitted, 
and  should  be  packed  in  a strong  box,  so  they  are 
protected  against  pressure.  Of  course,  the  most 
satisfactory  light  is  given  by  kerosene  should  you  be 
able  to  have  it. 

A first-class  filter — there  are  not  so  many  on  the 
market — and  a brush  to  clean  it  after  usage  is  a 
necessity,  but  keep  in  mind  that  the  filter  is  only 
eleansing  and  not  purifying;  therefore,  if  the  water  is 
doubtful,  be  on  the  safe  side  and  boil  it.  Also  put 
fresh  water  every  night  in  the  canteen  you  use 
even  though  you  do  not  drink  it  all.  It  will  be  cooler 
next  morning  and  freer  from  the  sediment  always 
present  even  after  filtering.  One  grows  careless  in 
this  respect  and  oftentimes  circumstances  do  not  ad- 
mit of  precaution.  When  you  have  been  paddling 
hard  all  day  under  a pouring  rain  and  tie  up  for  night 


300 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


at  the  bank  where  no  opportunity  offers  of  making 
fire,  you  are  rather  apt  to  drink  the  water  as  you 
find  it.  There  were  days,  and  sometimes  weeks,  at 
a stretch  on  some  of  my  river  journeys  in  South 
America  and  in  Sumatra  when  I did  not  boil  the 
water  because  I could  not  make  a fire.  And  it  is  my 
good  fortune  never  to  have  paid  the  penalty,  which 
may  easily  be  heavy,  of  such  neglect. 

Entirely  as  a tribute  to  my  palate,  I carry  coffee 
when  I can  and  tea  when  I must  in  the  tropics;  and 
both  must  be  kept  in  water-tight  tin  cans  as  well  to 
preserve  them  against  upset  as  for  protection  under 
rainfall,  which  not  on  occasion  will  amount  to  a 
foot  of  precipitation  in  one  storm.  To  anyone  canoe- 
ing in  the  rainy  season  my  advice  is  to  always  make 
an  extra  quantity  so  you  will  have  some  on  hand  for 
days  when,  as  is  often  the  case,  building  fire  is  not 
possible.  If  you  can  be  certain  of  a fire  once  a day 
it  will  be  a good  average,  and  there  are  days  at  a time 
when  you  will  not  be  able  to  cook  at  all. 

Eschew  the  patent  cigar  lighter  and  its  fuse. 
They  may  be  all  right  on  a steamer,  but  they  are  use- 
less in  the  damp  jungle.  Have  a canvas  “ fire  bag,” 
as  it  is  called  in  the  Far  North  country,  that  you  can 
attach  to  your  belt  or  put  in  pocket  for  your  pipe, 
tobacco  and  matches  in  daily  use,  keeping  the  balance 
of  your  supply  in  waterproof  sacks.  And  get  both 
tobacco  and  matches  of  native  make;  it’s  the  only 
kind  that  will  withstand  the  climate.  Keep  your  pipe 
clean,  but  do  not  scrape  the  inside  or  take  out  the 
“ button.”  I discovered  I did  not  smoke  as  much  in 
the  tropics,  particularly  in  the  rainy  season,  as  in  the 
temperate  or  Arctic  zones. 


THE  DITTY  BAG 


301 


In  my  individual  ditty  bag,  in  addition  to  the 
usual  small  housewife,  I always  carry  one  of  those 
tools-in-the-handle  kits,  a small  whetstone,  a spool  of 
medium-sized  copper  wire,  a pair  of  cutting  pliers  and 
a stout  fishline.  The  tools-in-handle  kit  I have  found 
most  handy,  scarcely  a day  passing  without  its  serv- 
ing; and  nothing  is  so  all-round  useful  in  camping 
and  travelling  as  copper  wire.  In  a waterproof 
canvas  bag  that  may  be  slung  from  the  shoulder  I 
place  notebooks,  field  glasses  and  compactly  rolled 
toilet  articles,  including  razor  and  tube  of  the  incom- 
parable shaving  cream  “ Euxesis,”  which  requires 
neither  water  nor  a brush.  If  you  are  a wearer  of 
spectacles  (and  don’t  try  to  use  eyeglasses  in  jungle 
travel)  have  the  large  round  lenses  set  in  aluminum 
frames,  with  a thin  cork  cushion  under  the  bridge, 
and  rubber  tubing  enclosing  the  arms  where  they  fit 
around  the  ears.  Of  course,  you  should  take  along 
one  extra  pair  at  least,  in  a strong  case. 

A spool  of  the  dental  floss,  which  comes  in  a metal 
cylinder,  is  the  only  practical  form  for  the  traveller, 
among  the  many  that  will  be  off  ered  by  the  druggist. 
In  this  bag  also  is  such  literature  as  I may  be  fortu- 
nate enough  to  find  opportunity  to  read,  of  which 
there  is  not  a great  deal  in  rainy  season  travel  through 
the  jungle,  though  I am  never  without  hope  or  the 
material.  Watch  and  compass  I carry  in  trousers 
pockets,  at  the  end  of  lanyards  fastened  to  my  belt; 
also  a stout  but  medium  size  utility  jack-knife. 

I do  not  use  a tent  in  the  jungle,  but  spread 
a tarpaulin  in  the  wet  and  a stout  fly  in  the  dry 
season — make  it  double  when  you  can. 

In  the  matter  of  provisions — here  again  the  char- 


302 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


acter  of  the  trip  must  influence  choice.  I am  one  of 
those  wilderness  travellers  who  always  lives  the  best 
he  can  as  long  as  he  can.  I adapt  myself  to  condi- 
tions. Whenever  the  transportation  enables  me  to 
carry  along  a cot,  I take  it,  and  when  the  transpor- 
tation affords  opportunities  for  a comparatively 
elaborate  menu,  I go  the  limit.  Otherwise,  it  is  my 
habit  to  live  on  the  country,  that  is,  to  eat  what  the 
natives  eat,  having  found  that  to  be  the  only  way 
to  make  extended  exploration  in  really  untravelled 
regions.  On  many  divisions  of  the  Road  it  would 
have  been  utterly  impossible  for  me  to  carry  outside 
supplies  and  equally  impossible  to  prepare  them. 
Mandioca  and  dried  fish  comprise  the  local  food 
and  that  is  what  the  adventurer  to  the  unfrequented 
sections  in  that  land  must  depend  upon.  There  are 
parts  of  the  Road  upon  which  provisions  may  be 
carried — for  example,  on  the  lower  Orinoco,  the 
lower  Rio  Negro  and  the  Parana,  where  I included 
rice  as  the  most  satisfying;  you  can  carry  more  of  it 
and  it  goes  farther  and  suits  you  better  than  any 
other  fare.  Beans  are  a favourite  of  mine,  but  not 
for  canoe  travel  in  the  rainy  tropics;  they  are  too 
long  cooking.  In  Far  Eastern  jungles  I relied  upon 
rice,  with  dried  peas  as  a side  dish. 

In  short,  the  staples  for  tropical  small  canoe  travel 
are  coffee,  rice,  dried  fish,  mandioca — and  beans  if 
you  can  take  time  to  prepare  them.  Canned  goods 
are  impossible  for  this  kind  of  travel,  but  if  you 
journey  on  waters  open  to  a large  boat,  they  may  be 
carried,  though  I do  not  favour  them  for  the  tropics. 

Whenever  I can  arrange  a menu  to  suit  me,  it  con- 
sists of  beans,  rice,  fish  and  fruit;  a very  little  meat 


THE  WORTH  OF  LIMES 


303 


and,  where  to  be  found,  that  little  of  turtle  or  the 
grass-eating  manati.  If  like  me,  you  will  not  much 
care  for  soup  in  hot  countries,  but  the  German 
ebswurst  is  hard  to  beat  as  an  emergency  ration. 

Whether  or  not  you  use  sugar  and  tobacco,  you 
should  add  as  much  of  each  as  you  conveniently  can 
for  barter.  Tobacco  especially  is  better  than  money. 

Another  article  equally  important  is  limes,  which 
are  a great  bracer  when  you  are  feeling  feverish  or 
“ done.”  Some  hot  water,  lime  juice  and  a little 
rum  make  a very  effective  pick-me-up  for  the 
tropics;  though  pick-me-ups  are  not  to  be  dal- 
lied with  here  unless  you  really  need  them.  I should 
advise  a good,  stiff,  straight  lemonade  every  day, 
whether  you  think  you  require  it  or  not.  It’s  excellent 
for  the  stomach.  Indeed,  the  medicinal  value  of  limes 
is  not  half  appreciated — one  should  never  be  without 
them  in  the  tropics.  But  leave  the  spirits  alone  un- 
less you  feel  decidedly  chilly  after  a wetting,  and 
even  then  hot  coffee  or  tea  is  better  for  you. 

You  should  have  waterproof  bags  for  provisions 
as  well  as  for  clothing,  and  if  you  wish  to  save  time 
and  gray  hairs,  put  your  different  kinds  of 
provisions  in  separate,  differently  coloured  sacks,  or 
give  each  sack  a distinguishing  mark  so  you  can 
readily  recognize  and  find  what  you  seek.  This  saves 
hours  on  a trip  and  makes  life  a little  more  endur- 
able when  you  are  pitching  camp  in  the  rain. 

Powdered  coffee  is  the  easiest  to  carry  and  the 
simplest  and  quickest  for  usage.  You  put  the  coffee 
in  a cloth  strainer  and  pour  the  boiling  water  over  it, 
thus  needing  no  mill  and  having  hot  water  for  other 
purposes.  It  simplifies  the  equipment.  I also  take 


304 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


along  some  powdered  chocolate,  which  is  thankfully 
consumed  when  you  are  shy  a meal  or  two.  Of  native 
things,  the  cheese  is  wholesome  and  satisfying,  and  I 
suggest  stocking  up  on  it  whenever  there  is  the 
opportunity. 

Once  a week,  if  you  can,  give  everything  a good 
sun  bath — all  your  provisions  and  all  your  equip- 
ment— unfailingly  if  you  are  on  an  extended  journey. 
This  is  as  true  of  the  dried  fish  as  it  is  of  the  clothing. 
On  the  other  hand,  do  not  you  yourself  at  any  time 
take  the  sun  for  long,  especially  on  the  back.  If  you 
have  to  sit  in  the  sun,  face  it  if  possible. 

Every  wilderness  adventurer  should  familiarize 
himself  with  simple  medicinal  remedies  and  elemental 
surgery.  He  ought  to  know  how  to  treat  burns  and 
bruises  and  wounds  and  snake  bites.  He  must  know 
how  to  make  a tourniquet,  and  that  it  should  be  ap- 
plied between  the  wound  and  the  heart  when  the 
blood  is  bright  red  and  comes  in  spurts,  but  on  the 
side  of  the  wound  farthest  from  the  heart  when  the 
blood  is  dark  and  flows  steadily.  He  ought  always 
to  carry  a medicine  kit  arranged  under  the  advice  of  a 
physician  who  has  first  hand  knowledge  of  the  tropics. 

In  this  kit  should  be  something  for  quick  action 
against  chills  and  fever  and  constipation  and  diarrhea ; 
scissors,  tourniquet,  tweezers,  carbolized  vasoline,  in 
addition,  of  course,  to  dressings  such  as  sterilized 
gauze  and  roller  bandages.  And  last,  but  not  least,  a 
roll  of  one-inch  adhesive  plaster,  equally  serviceable 
in  mending  your  gun  stock  or  shoes,  as  in  patching 
your  face,  and  with  the  advantage  over  electrician 
tape  of  being  medicated. 

Carbolic  soap  is  safest  to  use  and  arnica  leaves 


CAMP  DOCTORING 


305 


make  the  best  lotion  for  bruises  and  are  easily  carried. 
Also  include  collodion  or  a tube  of  new  skin;  it  is  in- 
valuable for  protecting  wounds  against  dirt.  If  you 
are  making  your  first  trip,  take  along  something  like 
Jamaica  ginger  for  stomach  instead  of  using  rum  or 
chlorodyne;  and  I never  go  without  blue  ointment  as 
vermin  preventive  and  exterminator. 

Quinine  is  the  common  fever  preventive.  When 
I first  went  into  the  jungle  I was  told  to  take  five 
grains  daily,  but  never  followed  that  advice,  although 
it  has  given  satisfaction  to  many  others.  My 
plan  is  to  leave  myself  alone  if  I feel  all  right ; when  I 
feel  feverish  I take  from  twenty  to  twenty-five  grains 
in  two  doses,  fifteen  at  night  and  ten  in  the  morning. 
In  other  words,  my  scheme  is  to  knock  the  ailment 
when  it  comes  rather  than  to  keep  filtering  medicine 
into  my  system.  Never  have  I been  laid  up  by  fever 
so  I could  not  travel,  although  I’ve  felt  very  seedy. 

Also  I strongly  advise  a cup  of  black,  strong 
coffee  the  first  thing  on  awakening  in  the  morning, 
before  you  stir  around. 

Snake  bites,  while  always  a possibility,  are  not  a 
probability,  despite  popular  belief  to  the  contrary. 
However,  you  should  be  prepared  for  the  excep- 
tion that  proves  the  rule.  Open  the  clothing  and 
expose  the  point  of  attack  without  delay.  Quickly 
apply  a tourniquet  above  the  bite  to  partly  stop 
the  circulation,  so  the  venom  will  not  be  carried 
into  the  system.  Then  with  a sharp  knife  (there 
should  be  a scalpel  with  a closing  blade  in  your 
medicine  kit)  lay  open  the  skin  just  where  the 
snake’s  fangs  have  struck,  cutting  outward  and 
lengthwise  of  the  limb.  Don’t  make  a pin  prick; 


306 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


make  a fair,  free  cut,  letting  the  blood  run  for  a few 
seconds  to  wash  out  the  poison.  Sucking  the 
wound  answers  the  same  purpose  (be  sure  there  are 
no  scratches  or  cuts  on  your  lips  in  this  case) . Wash 
out  the  wound  with  whiskey  or  other  spirits,  if  at 
hand,  or  boiled,  cool  water.  After  this  rub  some  per- 
manganate of  potash  into  the  wound.  Do  not  take  off 
the  tourniquet  for  some  little  time,  and  then  remove 
it  and  put  it  on  again  at  short  intervals.  Finally 
dress  the  wound  as  any  other.  The  sting  of  scorpions, 
tarantulas,  centipedes,  should  be  treated  in  a simi- 
lar manner,  though  so  large  a wound  need  not  be 
made,  as  the  poison  is  not  virulent. 

The  chief  things  to  remember  in  such  surgery  are 
(1)  to  keep  your  hands  clean,  (2)  to  put  no  dress- 
ing on  the  wound  which  is  not  clean  and  antiseptic, 
and  (3)  to  use  no  unboiled  water.  You  should  al- 
ways carry  bichloride  tablets,  with  which  a solution 
is  made  for  the  washing  of  wounds  as  well  as  mere 
irritations,  which  are  susceptible  to  infection. 

Infection  from  insect  bite  you  are  sure  to  en- 
counter and  it  is  always  to  be  taken  seriously.  It  is 
most  important  to  keep  any  wound  clean.  There- 
fore, to  those  visiting  insect-infested  tropics,  I say 
with  greatest  emphasis,  resist,  at  all  cost  of  effort, 
the  temptation  to  scratch  and  so  save  yourself  un- 
told trouble  and  possible  blood  poisoning.  To  keep 
from  scratching  will  require  every  bit  of  fortitude 
you  possess,  but  if  you  do  scratch,  you  not  only  im- 
measurably increase  the  itching  and  the  irritation 
and  the  swelling,  but  you  lay  yourself  liable  to  in- 
fection. You  cannot  depend  on  any  “ dope  ” to  pro- 
tect you  against  insect  pest — not  against  the  real 


CHOOSING  A BATTERY 


307 


insect  plague  if  you  get  into  it.  I have  tried  many 
kinds  many  times  in  Siam,  in  Malaya,  where  are  some 
of  the  most  noisome  jungles  in  the  Far  East,  and 
in  South  America,  but  never  with  success.  I refer 
to  the  pest  at  its  worst;  if  you  are  making  a short 
excursion  into  the  outer  edges  of  the  jungle,  or  on 
the  llanos,  or  can  keep  the  middle  of  the  big  rivers, 
the  insects  are  not  troublesome.  Under  such  condi- 
tions, I have  found  a preparation  of  two  parts  pure 
olive  oil  and  one  part  tar  to  be  moderately  useful. 

The  “best”  battery  offers  a theme  for  never 
ending  discussion;  it  is  a subject  upon  which  hunters 
perhaps  agree  least.  There  are  so  many  different 
rifles,  all  good,  and  so  many  different  loads  and  cali- 
bres of  so  nearly  equal  efficiency,  that  the  choice  is 
wide.  I presume  I am  a bit  old-fashioned  in  my  prej- 
udices, as  being  one  of  those  hunters  who  do  not 
believe  in  going  afield  with  a rifle  which  carries  a 
mile  for  game  never  seen  over  seventy-five  or  one 
hundred  yards  distant.  I confess  that  for  deer,  elk 
or  moose,  I prefer  the  older  style  of  cartridge,  the  one 
carrying  a big,  sickening  lump  of  lead  which  does 
not  journey  into  the  next  county — but  stops  in  the 
quarry.  If,  however,  you  expect  to  meet  really  dan- 
gerous game  in  the  jungle — lion,  tiger,  the  seladang 
of  Malaya,  elephant.  Cape  buffalo  or  the  rhino — the 
more  smashing  power  your  gun  has  the  better  for 
you  and  your  friends. 

In  the  first  line  of  defence  against  such  game  noth- 
ing equals  the  cordite  .450  and  .500  double-barrelled 
express  rifles  of  English  make,  though  W.  A.  Chanler, 
Kermit  Roosevelt,  Stewart  E.  White  and  several 
more  American  sportsmen  have  scored  in  Africa  on 


308 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


the  biggest  game  with  American  rifles  of  smaller 
calibre,  such  as  the  Winchester  and  others.  But 
these  demand  a better  target,  usually  unobtainable  in 
dense  cover,  and  consummate  marksmanship. 

In  South  America  there  is  no  dangerous  game  ex- 
cept the  jaguar,  and  he  is  not  so  very  dangerous, 
for,  like  most  of  the  cat  family,  he  will  usually  retire 
if  there  is  the  chance,  and  as  an  almost  invariable  rule 
fights  only  when,  cornered  or  maddened  by  wounds, 
he  meets  you  in  close  quarters.  South  America  is  not 
a game  country  so  far  as  animals  as  concerned;  apart 
from  the  jaguar,  there  are  the  tapir,  several  kinds  of 
deer  and  the  peccaries.  Some,  I am  told,  class  the 
guanaco  as  game,  but  I should  about  as  soon  think 
of  shooting  a camel  as  one  of  those  creatures  or  any  of 
its  kindred — the  alpaca  and  the  vicuna. 

If  you  go  into  a given  section  with  a definite 
purpose  of  jaguar  or  of  deer,  you  will  carry  the  rifle 
which  most  pleases  you.  Any  of  the  high-grade 
American  rifles  is  quite  strong  enough  for  the  jaguar, 
if  your  bullet  mushrooms  well;  but  you  must  shoot 
straight  and  hit  hard,  for,  as  I say,  it  is  a beast  which 
is  formidable  on  occasions  and  then  takes  a lot  of 
killing.  The  tapir  affords  no  sport.  It’s  extremely 
shy,  frequents  the  rivers  and  is  a strong  swimmer, 
but  if  you  are  in  want  of  meat,  it  will  supply  you 
with  a fairly  palatable  piece. 

The  real  sport  of  South  America  is  supplied  by 
its  birds,  among  which  are  many  members  of  the 
partridge,  grouse,  snipe  and  pheasant-like  families 
ranging  wide — and  in  season  wild  fowl  by  the  multi- 
tudes. No  sportsman,  of  course,  shoots  the  birds  of 
plumage.  The  best  of  sport  is  afforded  by  the  rhea 


LUXURIES 


309 


or  Argentine  ostrieh,  hunted  with  dogs,  and  the  bolas 
which  the  natives  throw  with  great  skill. 

When  you  can  carry  but  one  rifle  and  are  likely  to 
come  across  birds,  deer  or  possibly  jaguar,  I advise 
the  pump  gun  because  it  shoots  both  shot  and  ball 
fairly  well.  This  gun  constituted  my  armory  for 
much  of  my  South  American  jungle  travel;  and  when 
I could  pack  it  I added  a Mannlicher  9 mm.  (.3546 
calibre).  Percy  C.  Madeira  has  been  most  successful 
with  the  8 millimeter.  If  your  rifle  leads  drop  a small 
quantity  of  mercury  into  the  barrel,  then  plug  and 
shake.  The  lead  can  readily  be  removed  after  this 
treatment  by  a swab.  You  must  keep  your  guns  well 
oiled,  and  your  camera  films  in  tin  cases. 

For  knife  and  ax,  a Marble  pattern  is  best  suited 
to  my  requirements.  The  scalloped  blade,  after  the 
alleged  bowie  model,  is  a miserable  skinning  knife, 
but  useful  on  the  tenderfoot  belt  for  photographic 
purposes.  The  genuine  butcher  blade  is  the  ideal. 

In  going  to  South  America  let  me  urge  that  you 
include  a butterfly  net  if  you  are  at  all  interested  in 
studying  at  close  hand  those  beautiful  winged  crea- 
tures, of  which  the  varieties  are  countless. 

As  to  expenses,  that  again  is  a question  of  where 
you  are  going  and  how  you  go.  Mine,  by  and  large, 
averaged  from  one  hundred  to  three  hundred  dollars 
a month,  though  it  is  only  fair  to  add  that  I was  al- 
ways obliged  to  keep  within  a limited  time  and  a given 
small  amount  of  money — hence  I was  by  sheer  neces- 
sity compelled  to  put  my  outfit  on  the  simplest  work- 
ing basis  practicable — shorn  of  all  luxuries. 

Speaking  of  luxuries,  it  is  rather  interesting,  I 
think,  to  know  and  to  record  here  that  even  the  har- 


310 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


diest  veteran  hunter  among  us  always  has  in  mind 
some  cherished  article  outside  of  fundamentals  for 
which  he  hopes  to  find  room  in  his  outfit  and  which  he 
does  include  unless  his  equipment  is  restricted  to 
actual  necessities,  such  as  food  and  the  essentials  of 
fire-making  and  travel.  Thus,  under  “ going  light  ” 
conditions.  Col.  Theodore  Roosevelt  says  that  his  first 
item  of  luxury  would  be  “ floss  silk  for  the  teeth,”  and 
adds  that  “ tea  I would  consider  almost  a necessity 
for  a long  trip.”  Stewart  Edward  White,  who,  like 
the  Colonel,  has  hunted  in  Africa  as  well  as  in 
America,  declares  for  “ more  syrup.”  Charles 
Sheldon,  a notable  example  of  the  self-reliant,  com- 
petent wilderness  traveller  and  hunter,  as  his  books 
of  Alaskan  adventures  indicate,  says  that  aside  from 
the  necessities,  such  as  food,  etc.,  there  are  “ two  spe- 
cial things  I insist  on  taking  into  the  woods — one  is 
an  Alpine  Ruchsack ; this  perhaps  would  not  be  classi- 
fied as  a luxury.  The  other,  on  the  contrary,  is  dis- 
tinctly one.  I always  bring  with  me  an  extra  fine 
quality  of  tea.” 

Dr.  Wm.  Lord  Smith,  who  has  made  a specialty 
of  hunting  tigers  over  all  the  world,  says  that  where 
he  has  done  most  of  his  shooting,  in  Asia  and  Africa, 
“ porters  are  cheap  and  plenty  and  my  luxury  would 
be  a portable  tub  with  plenty  of  hot  water  to  fill  it.” 
The  dean  of  big  game  hunters  is  unquestionably  the 
Englishman,  F.  C.  Selous,  who,  now  in  his  sixtieth 
year,  is,  as  I write  (December,  1911),  on  his  way  to 
the  Lorian  Swamp  in  East  Africa.  None  has  had 
so  long  or  so  continuous  experience  in  the  hunting 
field  as  he,  so  that  what  he  says  as  to  a first  choice  of 
a luxury  is  worth  quoting  at  length: 


GOLDEN  RULES 


311 


“ Personally  I have  no  fad  or  fancy  for  any  small  luxury, 
as  I learnt  to  travel  very  light  in  my  early  days  of  African 
hunting  and  for  twenty  years  never  carried  even  a tooth- 
brush, as  I used  to  clean  my  teeth  as  the  natives  did  with  a 
piece  of  wood.  I had  to  live  entirely  out  of  the  country  and 
found  that  in  the  way  of  food  I required  fat  and  sugar  in 
addition  to  lean  meat,  and  what  I could  buy  from  the  natives 
in  the  way  of  native  corn,  meal  or  rice.  The  first  I obtained 
from  the  larger  animals,  elephants,  hippos,  white  rhinoc- 
eroses, giraffes  and  elands,  and  I rendered  out  large  quan- 
tities in  the  early  part  of  the  dry  season  for  use  during  the 
later  months  when  all  animals  were  in  low  condition.  The 
second — sugar — I obtained  from  wild  honey,  which  was 
unusually  plentiful.  All  my  life  I have  been  a teetotaller 
and  a non-smoker  and  I have  never  carried  a single  bottle 
of  brandy  even  for  medicine.  Putting  aside  all  food,  matches 
and  necessary  clothing  equipment,  the  one  thing  I would 
always  take  with  me  on  any  trip,  in  either  a hot  or  a cold 
country,  before  anything  else,  would  be  tea.  I am  not  very 
particular  as  to  the  kind  of  tea  I get  and  I think  it  is  the  hot 
drink  more  than  anything  else  which  I like.  I like  my  tea 
with  sugar  and  milk  when  I can  get  it,  but  even  when  I have 
to  drink  it  without  any  adjunct  I find  it  a great  comfort, 
and  should  miss  it  very  much  if  I had  to  do  without  it 
altogether.” 

Richard  Harding  Davis,  our  eminent  war  cor- 
respondent, who  as  such  has  trekked  the  glohe  over, 
writes  me,  in  reply  to  my  request  for  his  first  choice 
of  luxury: 

“ A luxury  if  you  want  it  badly  enough  becomes  a neces- 
sity. My  idea  of  both  is  a Forbes  chair,  or,  as  you  call  it 
and  as  it  is  often  called,  the  roorkee  chair;  and  books  to 
read  on  rainy  days,  on  days  when  you  are  kept  in  camp 
waiting  for  fresh  supplies  or  remounts  or  reinforcements, 
or  just  because  you  are  lazy.” 


312 


THE  FLOWING  ROAD 


For  myself,  talcum  powder  has  always  been  the 
first  real  luxury  to  go  into  my  pack.  But  on  all  my 
trips,  wherever  they  may  be  and  whatever  the  sea- 
son, the  two  things  which  invariably  have  my  first, 
and  last  and  continuous  best  thoughts  are — 

(1)  To  keep  my  stomach  normal,  and, 

(2)  To  keep  my  feet  in  good  condition. 

These  I consider  the  two  most  important  essen- 
tials to  wilderness  travel  however  or  wherever  it  be. 
Indeed,  to  keep  my  feet  sound,  my  mouth  shut,  and 
my  eyes,  ears  and  bowels  open  are  my  golden  rules. 

Finally,  I will  say,  that  in  addition  to  suitable 
equipment  and  a sound  constitution,  the  successful 
wilderness  hunter  must  have  also  patience  and 
courage  and  good  temper;  and  the  last  is  not  the 
least  important.  Temperance  I consider  imperative. 

Adventuring  in  the  deep  jungle  is  a plod,  day 
after  day — a hard  plod.  There  is  none  of  the  inter- 
est and  excitement  of  Africa’s  vast  open  game  fields 
with  something  happening  every  hour  to  keep  you  en- 
thused. Instead,  there  is  the  silent,  forbidding  for- 
est— apparently  deserted — where  you  need  grim  per- 
severance and  enough  experience  to  prevent  panic 
if,  one  day  in  the  untracked  solitude,  doubt  of  your 
bearings  suddenly  grips  you. 


INDEX 


A 

Acarigua,  town,  Venezuela,  251. 

Agouti,  edible  rodent,  Brazil,  67. 

Algarrobo  tree,  286. 

Alpargata,  Venezuelan  sandal,  227. 

Altar  Pass,  248. 

Amazon  River,  extent,  16;  char- 
acter of  banks,  17. 

Andre,  Eugene,  135;  on  Caura,  184. 

Anhinga-snake  bird,  63. 

Ant-eater  or  bear,  82,  186,  289. 

Ants,  visitations,  42;  march  of, 
stings,  55-67 ; adventure  with, 
186;  ferocity,  industry,  239. 

Apure  River,  west  tributary, 
lower  Orinoco,  high  water 
marks,  121;  extent,  248;  flood 
land,  263. 

Arauca  River,  west  tributary, 
lower  Orinoco,  213;  flood  land, 
263. 

Arrows,  native,  145. 

Atabapo  River,  south  tributary, 
upper  Orinoco,  109. 

Atures,  north  port,  Orinoco 
cataracts,  135,  192. 

B 

Barcellos,  town,  Brazil,  20. 

Barquisimeto,  town,  Venezuela, 
247. 

Bateldo,  cargo  craft,  28;  propel- 
ling, 34. 

Bates,  on  turtles,  204. 

Bats,  61,  125. 

Bed,  hanging  a hammock,  296; 
cots,  297;  sleeping  position, 
297;  pillows,  298;  bags,  298. 

Bees,  “ Angelitos,”  38. 


Bingham,  Prof.  Hiram,  route 
Bogotd,  261;  jabiru  stork,  264. 

Birds,  lower  Negro,  39-40;  of 
swamp  voices,  53;  snake  bird 
(anhinga),  63;  drumming,  80; 
scarcity  at  Rapids,  84,  198; 

upper  Orinoco,  146,  191;  lower 
Orinoco,  217 ; at  water-holes, 
234;  on  llanos,  245;  along 
Portuguesa,  257-262;  egret  kill- 
ing, 261;  at  Atures,  263;  on 
Feliciano,  284;  hooded  in  Argen- 
tine, 285;  bell  bird,  campanero, 
248-249. 

Bittern,  125. 

Blow-gun,  “ Sarabatana,”  145. 

Boats,  see  canoe. 

Bolivar,  town,  Venezuela,  212. 

Bombilla,  279. 

Bongo,  see  canoe. 

Bows,  native,  145. 

Branco  River,  north  tributary, 
lower  Rio  Negro,  19,  123. 

Brazil  nut,  26. 

Bushmaster,  59. 

Butterflies  on  Negro,  40;  a marvel, 
106. 

C 

Cababuri  River,  north  tributary, 
lower  Negro,  64. 

Cachaca,  Brazil,  43;  uses,  69. 

Cactus,  231. 

Cagua,  town,  Venezuela,  247. 

Caicara,  settlement,  Venezuela, 
214. 

Caiman,  211;  see  crocodile. 

Cakouri,  95. 

Calabash,  Spanish,  42;  also  gourd; 
also  Cuia  in  Brazil;  uses,  237. 


313 


314 


INDEX 


Calabozo,  llanos  “ metropolis,” 
Venezuela,  248. 

Calentura,  193;  see  fever. 

Camanaos,  beginning  bad  rapids 
where  Negro  turns  north,  66. 

Campanero,  voice,  248-249;  see 
beU  bird. 

Campo,  18. 

Cafio,  Venezuela;  igarapee,  Brazil; 
47;  connecting  rivers,  115;  size, 
current,  121. 

Canoe,  t^pes;  uba,  canoa,  curiara, 
dugout,  bongo,  falca,  montaria; 
28. 

Capybara,  Brazil,  68;  same  as 
Carpincho,  Argentine,  289. 

Caribe,  bloodthirsty  fish,  263. 

Caribs,  Indians,  114;  ancient  road 
of,  135,  184. 

Caroni  River,  south  tributary, 
lower  Orinoco,  135. 

Came  seca,  dried  meat,  252; 
toughness  of,  191. 

Casiquiare  River,  connecting  Ori- 
noco and  Negro,  116,  129;  char- 
acter, 131. 

Cassava,  191. 

Cassique,  39;  also  japim  and 
oriole. 

Castro,  freebooter,  219. 

Caucho,  20. 

Caura  River,  south  tributary, 
lower  Orinoco,  115. 

Cavy,  289. 

Caxoeiras,  rapids,  Brazil;  raudales, 
Venezuela,  64. 

Ceiba  tree,  49,  231. 

Chair  for  camp,  298. 

Chanler,  W.  A.,  rifle  of,  307. 

Chapman,  Frank,  knowing  eyes, 
182. 

Chinchorro,  see  hammock. 

Chubasco,  216. 

Chuchu,  Argentine,  268;  see  fever. 

Cicada,  shrieking,  41. 

Cigarettes,  native,  75. 


[ Clothes  and  shoes  for  jungle,  295- 
1 296. 

j Cloud  effects,  218. 

Cocui,  1000-foot  rock  on  frontier 
between  Brazil  and  Venezuela, 
66,  94. 

Cojedes,  settlement,  Venezuela, 
248. 

Conquistadores,  seekers  for  fabled 
El  Dorado,  113. 

Cook  outfit,  299. 

Cougar,  223;  curiosity,  225;  lack 
of  courage,  282-283. 

Crocodile,  voice,  191;  disposition, 
205;  friendly  encounter,  241. 

Cuia,  Brazil;  also  calabash  and 
gourd,  among  Spanish  speaking. 

Curare,  poison,  power,  144;  for- 
mula, 145. 

Curassow,  234,  239,  289. 

Curiosity,  guard  of  wilderness 
traveller,  176. 

D 

Darts,  blow-gun,  145. 

Davis,  Richard  Harding,  on  kits, 
292;  first  choice  camp  luxury, 
311. 

Deer,  232,  234,  244,  286,  289. 

Ditmar,  Raymond  L.,  on  croco- 
diles, 208. 

Ditty  bag,  301. 

Dope  fallacy,  130. 

Doves,  198,  231,  234. 

Drudgery,  relief,  128. 

Duane,  Colonel,  249. 

Ducks,  120,  198,  289. 

Dugout,  see  canoe. 

Duida,  Mt.,  Venezuela,  135. 

E 

Egret,  slaughter,  261;  moulted 
plumage,  262;  shambles,  263. 

El  Dorado,  fabled  land,  113;  see 
also  Conquistadores. 


INDEX 


315 


Equipment,  jungle  trekking  afoot, 
55,  160,  163;  vocabulary,  124; 
in  saddle,  226;  beeswax  for  ticks, 
238;  suggestions  on  meeting  wild 
life,  241 ; general,  290. 
Esmeralda,  mission,  137. 

Expense,  309. 

Explorers:  Wallace,  66,  85,  98. 
Andre,  135,  184. 

Bingham,  251. 

Conquistadores,  seekers  for  the 
El  Dorado,  113;  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh  voyaged  up  the  Ori- 
noco to  the  Caroni,  about  90 
miles  below  present  Ciudad 
Bolivar  and  only  180  miles 
from  the  Atlantic.  See  also 
Foreword,  3. 

Humboldt,  98,  106,  120,  196. 
Rice,  68,  85. 

F 

Facon,  Gaucho  knife,  269. 

Falca,  see  canoe. 

Farinha,  Brazil;  mandioca,  Ven- 
ezuela; native  flour,  31;  see 
mandioca. 

Feliciano  River,  northeast  tribu- 
tary, Parana. 

Fever,  193;  preventive,  194,  305; 
to  recognize  mosquito,  238 ; 
chuchu,  268;  washing  water,  242. 
Fiesta,  250. 

Filter,  299;  drinking,  300. 

Fire  flies,  285. 

Fish,  pirarucu,  staple,  26;  catch- 
ing, 95;  scarcity,  103;  seasons, 
117;  absence  in  cano,  125;  drum- 
ming, 190. 

Flowers,  in  forest,  51;  on  llanos, 
231,  245. 

Flowing  Road,  16-112. 

Forest,  vegetation,  47 ; luxuriance, 
parasites,  50,  63 ; awesomeness, 
79;  monotony,  120;  along  upper 
Orinoco,  146,  165;  llanos  in  dry 
season,  230;  sameness,  287. 


Fox  breeding,  freaks,  224. 

Frogs,  anvil  chorus,  43,  61,  125. 

Fruit,  lack  of,  Negro,  26. 

G 

Gallinule,  125,  234. 

Gapo,  flood  land,  18. 

Garrapata,  Venezuela,  237;  catch- 
ing, 238;  same  as  jigger,  red- 
bug,  wood-tick;  see  insects. 

Gato  dance,  269. 

Gaucho,  overrated,  230,  269. 

Geheta  River,  south  tributary, 
upper  Orinoco,  136. 

Going  light,  293. 

Golden  Rules,  jungle,  312. 

Gourd,  42;  uses,  237;  also  cala- 
bash and  cuia. 

Gran  chaco,  Argentine  forest,  266; 
Indians,  273. 

Guacharaca,  bird,  245. 

Guaharibos,  Indians,  144,  164,  169; 
alleged  disposition,  173. 

Guainia  River,  Brazil,  104;  con- 
tinuation Rio  Negro. 

Guaviare  River,  west  tributary, 
upper  Orinoco,  134. 

Gunare,  town,  Venezuela,  252. 

H 

Hammock,  227;  also  chinchorro. 

Heron,  croaking,  53;  stare,  59;  as 
food,  124;  soldado,  185,  190,  234. 

Horse,  Venezuela,  bronco,  229. 

Housewife,  301;  see  ditty  bag. 

Humboldt,  Alexander  von,  98, 
106,  120,  196;  on  crocodiles, 
211;  on  jaguars,  224. 

I 

Ibis,  262. 

Igarapee,  Brazil,  47;  also  cafio. 

Iguana,  59,  258,  285. 

Indians,  crew,  SO;  method  work, 
33;  cheeriness,  36;  family,  Tupi, 


316 


INDEX 


character,  skill,  37;  diving,  72; 
mongrel,  76;  improvidence,  68, 
75,  108;  nomadic,  90,  108,  140; 
patois,  116;  not  immune  to  in- 
sects, 131;  similarity,  132;  Ma- 
quiritares,  138,  142;  honesty, 

139;  “White  Indians,”  142,  143; 
Guaharibos,  144;  hair,  costume, 
157,  166,  169;  alleged  disposi- 
tion, 173;  Maipures  and  Atures, 
194;  superstition,  250;  river 
wanderers,  252;  gran  chaco,  273; 
Argentine  policy,  274. 

Insects,  Rio  Negro,  42;  lagoons, 
55;  Csisiquiare,  129;  preventive, 
130;  Orinoco,  135,  193;  period 
of  attack,  197 ; garrapata,  237 ; 
recognizing  fever  mosquito,  238; 
infection,  306. 

Italian  laborer,  Argentine,  269. 

J 

Jabiru  stork,  264. 

Jacana  bird,  63. 

Jaguar  {Felis  oncd)  kill,  125; 
native  fear,  126;  fairy  stories, 
126;  food,  chance  of  meeting, 
127,  195;  variation,  222;  black 
freak,  224;  size,  temper,  range, 
method  of  hunting,  225;  cave 
living,  243;  toll  of  llaneros,  250; 
an  encounter,  266-257 ; Argen- 
tine fancies,  280;  as  a swimmer 
and  fisher,  281;  attacking,  282; 
himting  with  dogs,  283;  tree 
scarring,  288. 

Japim  (Cassicus  persicus),  Brazil, 
39;  mimicry,  68;  see  Cassique. 

Javita,  north  port  of  neck  of  land 
separating  the  Amazon  and 
Orinoco  river  systems,  107. 

Jesuit  missions,  113-114. 

Jen-jen,  193;  see  insects. 

Jigger,  286;  same  as  wood-tick, 
red-bug,  garrapata;  see  insects. 


K 

Kilo,  two  and  one-fifth  pounds. 

Kingfisher,  39,  198. 

Kits,  equipment,  290. 

L 

Lagoon,  54;  changing  size,  121. 

Lantern,  299. 

Leadership,  qualities,  77,  91. 

Leggings,  296. 

Limes,  medicinal,  303. 

Lione,  Venezuela,  puma,  223,  244. 

Lizard,  steady  gaze,  58. 

Llanos,  228;  character,  230-231- 
251;  plants,  flowers,  245;  habi- 
tations, 246-246;  llaneros  life, 
260. 

M 

Macaws,  40. 

Madeira,  Percy,  rifle  of,  307. 

Madrugar,  84. 

Maipures,  south  port  great  Ori- 
noco cataracts,  135,  192. 

Manaos,  town,  Brazil,  16. 

Manati,  Brazil,  peixeboe  or  cow- 
fish, 25. 

Manaviche  River,  north  tributary, 
upper  Orinoco. 

Mandioca  or  mandioc,  Venezuela, 
31;  preparation,  54;  see  also 
farinha,  its  Brazilian  equivalent. 

Mantilla,  271. 

Mantua  vs.  hat,  271. 

Maps,  casual  character,  those 
made  of  South  America,  65, 
113;  Rapids  San  Gabriel,  67. 

Maquiritare  Indians,  142-144. 

Maracaibo,  town,  Venezuela,  219- 

220. 

Maracaibo  Lake,  Venezuela,  230. 

Marajo  Island,  Amazon,  16. 

Maroa,  town,  Venezuela,  112,  117. 

Mata  mata  turtle,  63. 

Mecham,  hunting  platform,  233. 

Medicines,  emergency  remedies, 
304. 


INDEX 


317 


Melanism,  224. 

Mess  kit,  individual,  295;  see  ditty 
bag. 

Meta  River,  west  tributary,  lower 
Orinoco. 

Mocovito  Indians,  Argentine,  273. 

Monkey-howler,  200-234. 

Montana,  see  canoe. 

Mont6,  231. 

Morgan,  Henry,  buccaneer,  219. 

Mosquito,  130;  to  know  fever 
breed,  238,  287;  see  insects. 

Mountains,  Curicuriari,  character- 
istic along  Negro,  65-66-68;  Ca- 
baburi,  94;  Duida,  133;  Parima 
and  Pacaraima  Sierras,  134-135; 
Roraima,  135;  Cuchilla  Montiel, 
283. 

N 

Natives,  better  country  class,  24. 

Near-hunters,  potting  out  of  trees, 
126,  225;  water-hole  ambush- 
ing, 226;  trophy  snatching,  236. 

O 

Ocama  River,  north  tributary, 
upper  Orinoco. 

Ocelot,  223;  wanton  killing,  225. 

Orchid,  50. 

Orinoco  River,  134;  character  of 
upper,  136,  145,  153-154,  190, 
189;  lower  course,  199. 

Oriole  (Cassicus  persicus),  39;  see 
also  japim  in  Brazil  and  Cas- 
sique  in  Venezuela. 

Ostrich  of  pampas  {Rhea  Ameri- 
cana), bolo  hunting,  289. 

Outfits,  general,  290. 

P 

Paca,  Brazil,  edible  rodent,  58,  108; 
see  also  agouti. 

Packing  basket,  native,  79. 

Packing,  sacks  of  different  colours, 
303. 


Padamo  River,  north  tributary, 
upper  Orinoco,  136. 

Paddles,  type,  29;  method  of 
using,  86;  joy  down  stream 
work,  109. 

Palm,  berry-bearing,  56,  82. 

Pampas,  Argentine,  228,  267. 

Pampero,  Argentine,  277. 

Panama  hat,  227. 

Paraguayan  tea,  278;  see  Yerba 
matfe. 

Parana  River,  267. 

Parana,  town,  Argentine,  275. 

Parasite,  on  trees,  51,  230. 

Parrakeets,  40,  231. 

Parrots,  40;  voice,  53,  190. 

Parima,  Pacaraima  Mts.,  Vene- 
zuela, 135,  192. 

Pdtio,  220. 

Patrdn,  30. 

Paujil,  Venezuela,  see  curassow. 

Pauxis,  Strait  of,  Amazon,  17. 

Pecil,  Miguel,  gentleman,  93. 

Photographing,  difficulties,  disap- 
pointments, 61,  149,  186,  240, 
286. 

Piassava,  36;  collecting,  118. 

Pilot,  Argentine,  skill,  268. 

Pimichin  River,  west  tributary  to 
Negro  or  Guainia  as  here  called, 
104. 

Pipe,  tobacco,  matches,  300. 

Pium,  Brazil,  42;  see  insects. 

Plata,  Rio  de  la,  267. 

Playa,  Venezuela,  201. 

Poncho,  uselessness  of,  295;  woven, 
270. 

Portuguesa  River,  west  tributary, 
Apure,  character,  253;  bird  life, 
262. 

Posada,  Venezuela,  Inn. 

Prdctico,  Brazil,  15;  skill,  19;  also 
pilot. 

Provisions,  301. 

Puchero,  Argentine  stew,  285. 

Puerto  Cabello,  town,  Venezuela. 


318 


INDEX 


Puerto,  south  port  of  land  neck  | 
separating  Orinoco  and  Amazon  I 
river  systems,  104.  i 

Puma,  223;  lack  courage,  282;  see 
also  cougar  and  lione. 

R 

Rail-birds,  234. 

Rain,  frequency  of,  69;  storm,  70, 
85,  90,  96,  103,  125,  128,  146, 
156,  180,  218,  264,  277;  precipita- 
tion, 300. 

Rancho,  250;  poverty,  254;  cheeri- 
ness, 260. 

Rapids,  Negro,  66;  map,  67; 
crossing,  70. 

Rations,  jungle  trekking  on  foot, 
54;  to  increase  pace,  95;  allow- 
ance, Brazil,  one  kilo  dried  meat, 
one-half  kilo  dried  fish  per  day 
per  man;  two  kilos  farinha, 
three  days  per  man.  One  kilo 
coflFee  per  man  a week.  KUo  is 
two  and  one-fifth  pounds. 

Red-bug,  see  garrapata. 

Remanse,  Brazil,  91. 

Rice,  Dr.  Hamilton,  68,  85,  251. 

Rifle,  125;  choice  of  battery,  307. 

Rio  Negro,  largest  north  tributary 
Amazon  and  one  of  its  greatest 
feeders,  15,  19;  character  of 
lower  course,  27 ; character  of 
upper  course,  83,  102. 

Rivers,  similarity  in  South  Amer- 
ica, 120-185;  rise  and  fall,  cur- 
rent, 188;  affected  by  rain,  121; 
records,  122;  colour,  122;  down 
stream  travel,  183. 

Rodent  family,  see  agouti,  paca, 
capybara. 

Roman,  Father,  129. 

Roosevelt,  Kermit,  rifle  of,  307. 

Roosevelt,  Theodore,  291 ; first 
choice  camp  luxury,  310. 

Roraima,  Mt.,  Venezuela,  183. 

Rubber  hunting,  22. 


S 

Saddle,  native,  230. 

Salado  River,  west  tributary, 
Parana,  266. 

San  Carlos,  Venezuelan  frontier 
post,  98;  trade,  118. 

Sancocho,  Venezuelan  stew,  246. 

San  Fernando  on  Apure,  town, 
Venezuela,  262. 

San  Fernando  on  the  Atabapo, 
town,  Venezuela,  110;  trade,  118. 

San  Gabriel,  on  divide  between 
lower  and  upper,  Negro,  at  be- 
ginning of  great  rapids,  73. 

San  Jose,  first  of  great  Negro 
rapids,  64. 

San  Rafael,  town,  head  of  Por- 
tuguesa,  251. 

Santa  Fe,  town,  Argentine,  266. 

Santa  Isabel,  head  navigation  on 
Rio  Negro,  15;  rubber  head- 
quarters, 22. 

Sarabatana,  blow-gun,  145. 

Savannah,  164,  231. 

Schedules,  difficulty  of  making 
or  keeping,  96,  124. 

Selous,  F.  C.,  first  choice  camp 
luxury,  311. 

Sheldon,  Charles,  first  choice  camp 
luxury,  310. 

Simpatico,  Venezuela,  congenial, 
143. 

Slave  traders,  routes  of  18th 
century,  116. 

Smith,  Dr.  \Vm.  Lord,  first  choice 
camp  luxury,  310. 

Snakes,  rapidity,  59;  water  boa, 
62;  attack  and  antidote,  107; 
land  boa,  172;  macaurel,  258; 
flee  your  path,  259. 

Soldado,  Venezuela  heron,  185. 

Southern  Cross,  44. 

Spiders,  90. 

Spiritus  frumenti,  use  of,  194. 

Spoonbill,  190,  234,  262. 

Squirrel,  black,  Venezuela,  234. 


INDEX 


319 


stilt,  53,  234. 

Sugar,  for  barter,  303. 

Superstition,  llanero,  250;  Indian, 
264. 

Surgery  in  camp,  306. 

T 

Tapir,  Brazilian,  Malayan,  60. 

TegriUo,  Venezuela,  little  tigre, 
260. 

Tegu-lizard,  58. 

Tend  River,  south  tributary  Ata- 
bapo,  109. 

Temperature,  lower  Negro,  41,  68, 
72;  upper  Negro,  102,  103; 

upper  Orinoco,  181 ; at  cataracts, 
193;  on  llanos,  249;  on  Apure, 
264. 

Tent,  301. 

Teru-tero,  Argentine,  284. 

Tigre,  see  jaguar. 

Tinaco  River,  north  tributary, 
Portuguesa,  249. 

Tobacco,  for  trade,  70. 

Toldo,  canoe  house,  28;  descrip- 
tion, 87. 

Toucan,  40,  63,  190. 

Townsend,  Dr.  Charles  H.,  most 
popular  museum  of,  63. 

Tucacas,  town,  Venezuela,  247. 

Tupi,  Brazil,  Indian  family,  37. 

Turtle,  tortuga,  25;  annual  gath- 
ering, 202. 

U 

Uaupes  River,  west  tributary, 
upper  Negro,  19. 

Uba,  description,  87 ; see  canoe. 

Urbana,  town,  Venezuela,  211. 


V 

Valencia,  town,  Venezuela,  247. 

Velasco,  General  B.  Tinedo,  old 
school  sportsman,  221;  endur- 
ance of,  245. 

Venezuela,  natural  wealth,  220. 

Ventuario  River,  east  tributary, 
upper  Orinoco,  116,  183-184. 

Vocabulary  for  travelling,  124. 

Vulture,  turkey  buzzard,  286. 

W 

Wallace,  Alfred  Russel,  on  eleva- 
tion, 66,  85,  98;  on  jaguar,  224. 

Wasps,  36. 

Water,  drinking,  washing,  242; 
filtering,  299;  boiling,  300. 

Water-hole,  character,  232;  sitting 
over,  233;  variety  wild  life,  234- 
236. 

Weapons,  native,  146;  of  Gran 
Chaco  Indians,  273. 

White,  Stewart  Edward,  291;  rifle 
of,  307 ; first  choice  camp  luxury, 
310. 

Wolf,  curiosity,  225. 

Woodpecker,  231. 

Wood-tick,  287;  see  also  tick,  red- 
bug,  jigger,  garrapata. 

Wood  turkey,  Argentine,  pavo  del 
monte,  289. 

Y 

Yerba  mat^,  Paraguayan  tea,  278; 
cup  of  and  ceremony,  279. 

Z 

Zambo,  Venezuela,  141. 

Zancudo,  Venezuela,  193;  see  in- 
sects. 


